


the right to call you home

by HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: After Season 8, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Love Confessions, M/M, Season 10 AU, Season 8-10 alternate, Season 8-10 spoilers, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson/pseuds/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of his choice in one of Lucifer’s crypts, Castiel runs. He leaves and doesn’t look back until an unfortunate encounter with a djinn gives him a chance to re-examine himself and his feelings for one Dean Winchester. Of course, nothing is ever simple for Castiel, and there’s also the Mark of Cain, Metatron, and his very own grace to think about before he can do anything about the mess his feelings have put him in.</p><p>(Based off <a href="http://the-bitch-to-your-jerk.tumblr.com/post/129078551405/yamiaki96fanfic-dont-imagine-cas-being">this</a> tumblr post)</p><p>(Written by Holmes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May We Live and Die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotQuiteWatson](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=NotQuiteWatson), [anya99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anya99/gifts), [Lyrial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrial/gifts).



> Okay, just a note about the Canon Divergence... Basically this fic starts at 8.17 and continues on until 10.23. It is worth remembering, however, that I pretty much rearranged the entirety of the rest of s8 and s9- for example, Dean gets the Mark in s8 here.
> 
> Also, when this fic comes back to agree with s10 canon, I should mention that s10 is still happening as normal in the background unless I say something to indicate otherwise. 
> 
> The playlist I listened to while I wrote this is [Here](http://8tracks.com/thebitchtoyourjerk/the-right-to-call-you-home)
> 
> Thanks for the artwork by the amazing [Jess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrial/pseuds/Lyrial), who let me ramble at her and made more art than I ever expected, plus Jess is actually super sweet anyway so *claps* (Her art masterpost is [here](http://lyrialdraws.tumblr.com/post/133802667022/art-masterpost-dcbb-2015-title-the-right-to)
> 
> Endless love to my betas- [Abi](http://my-aristos-achaion.tumblr.com), and [Anahita](http://the-jerk-to-your-bitch.tumblr.com) for taking the time to read through this 34k indulgence and encouraging me via the occasional capslocked Skype convo, as well as making me write the first 10k after a bet- I owe you two, and you're amazing.
> 
> Of course, thanks to everyone in the tumblr DCBB network- your support meant everything. Lastly to the DCBB mods- I'd never have thought to write this monstrosity without you.

[](http://s354.photobucket.com/user/suchcandor/media/cover_zpsqdxuyzy6.jpg.html)

“Cas, I know you’re in there.” Dean’s face is bloodstained, one eye swollen shut, yet he still speaks to help Cas, not himself. “I know you can hear me." Such conviction. "Cas, it’s me.” His voice breaks, but Cas’ grip on his blade does not. Cas watches the sadness and pain in Dean’s eyes, internally screaming at Naomi, asking what she has done to him- to his mind, and to Dean. “We’re family. We need you. I need you.”

“You have to choose, Castiel- us or them.” Naomi’s calm demeanor is unraveling, and there is something akin to desperation in her gaze. He shakes where he stands, knowing, undoubtedly, that he might just be a good soldier this time. He will be one of heaven’s mindless if he can’t undo her work.

“Cas?”

In the end it’s not Dean’s prayer that breaks Naomi’s hold on him: it’s the sight of his sword buried deep in Dean’s chest; it’s the sight of the life leaving Dean's eyes, and the realisation that there is no one to bring him back now because neither heaven nor hell care for the righteous man who has become Cas' best friend. Not even Cain truly cared when he branded the righteous man with his mark.

He drops to his knees, tablet cast away and tumbling to the side, unnoticed; holds Dean tight until Sam finds them. He can tell Sam doesn’t understand when he runs down the stairs, calling his brother’s name with the apprehension brought by mistrust they held in Naomi’s Castiel.

And then he sees. And then he understands.

Cas might try and explain what happened, knows he certainly tried to tell Sam that he’s sorry. But Sam will not listen to Cas. And whatever words Sam is shouting- screaming- and sobbing are lost to the roar of rage and pain and hatred that washes over Castiel. And he hurts. Cas hurts in a place in his chest that he associates with Dean because it warmed whenever he smiled.

But he wouldn’t smile. Not any more.

Sam sees Cas’ grief. But it isn’t enough to stop him lashing out, face contorted in the wildest kind of sadness that has him unable to even look at Cas as he pushes at him. The kind of anguish that has him pulling Dean’s cooling body out of Cas’ arms and into his own, has him despairing and trying to stem the last of the blood leaking out around the sword embedded in his brother’s heart. It is the kind of sorrow that has Sam wrapping his arms around Dean as Dean so often put his arms around Sam when the nightmares came but never can again, never will again.

Cas realises he is whispering Dean’s name, voice raw in an abruptly swollen throat. He calls for Dean, for Sam’s brother, for his friend.

But he is gone.  
\--

He and Sam go their separate ways. Sam takes the Impala, takes the tablet, takes Dean. Cas takes nothing. He has made his choices. He chooses to hunt.

Much as the Winchesters used to do, Cas saves people and hunts things. It’s not, however, a family business, because Castiel works alone and unaided. He doesn’t want anyone to end up like Dean and, at the same time, knows no one can truly replace the Winchesters. It doesn’t help that every monster he kills, that he sinks his blade into, has Dean reflected in their eyes. They are the monsters, but then so is he.

The road relaxes him, and he drives out to the middle of nowhere. When the nights are clear, when the stars shine and it hurts to remember how he’d truly wanted to show them to the Winchesters- to Dean-, he sits on the hood of his car and thinks for hours, without saying a word. His car isn’t his home. Nor is the road, or any of the crappy motels he checks into in a half-hearted attempt to seem normal. He is homeless because, however much he tries to drown it in the blood of the monsters and in the words of his research, his home has always been by Dean’s side.

Dean isn't there anymore.  
\--

“You big on mythology?”

Cas is at the library, digging deep for a volume that might just tell him how to kill a djinn. He’s sure Dean had told him once, long ago- or maybe it was Sam- and the dark-skinned girl with the pleasing smile is just distracting him. She holds volume upon volume of fairy tales in her arms, somehow not falling over, and Cas spares a moment to be astonished again at determination of the human race to do the impossible every day.

She looks at him expectantly, and Cas remembers he’s supposed to respond. His throat is dry because he chooses not to speak anymore. “I am researching the best way to kill a djinn,” he says honestly. “It is of import.”

“Is there one after you?”

Cas nods, and she laughs, obviously thinking he’s making a joke; she takes a seat opposite him anyway, dumping her books on the surface of the oak table. With practiced ease, she slides a book out from the middle of the stack and flicks it open to a page picturing a grotesque apparition appearing out of a small teapot-like contraption on the ground. “Well, if there’s one of these guys after you,” she continues, turning the book round so Castiel can read it, “then I better help. I’m Quvenzhané.”

“Thank you. My name is Castiel.”

She beams. “Nice name,” she comments, “and I’m glad to help.”

They read together silently for a moment, scanning the miniscule print, until Quvenzhané claps her hands together. “Knew it!” she crows, and points to a spot on the page. “Silver knife dipped in lamb’s blood,” Quvenzhané reads aloud, her curly hair falling over her face as she leans forward, casting shadows across the paper. “That enough for your research?”

Cas nods mutely, his mind elsewhere. Based on the rate of disappearance, the djinn would be out of its hideout procuring another victim that night. That should leave him enough time to go in and set a trap, he reasons, and he could still be back in time to start the long journey to the next town. Abruptly remembering Quvenzhané, he turns back to her. “Can I offer you some thanks for your aid?” he asks. “Dinner perhaps?”

Quvenzhané blinks, then giggles. “Oh no. Sorry.” Cas’ brow furrows as he wonders why she is laughing. He tilts his head to the side, confused. “I have a girlfriend,” she says hastily, and begins to gather her books. “Sorry.”

“In what way does dinner equate to me wishing to court you?”

Quvenzhané laughs again at Cas’ comment, and pats his hand. He feels… happy. For the first time in a long time, just sitting in the presence of a human being has made him joyous. He smiles at Quvenzhané, passing over her book with a murmured thanks.

“It doesn’t,” she says, “but society expects dinner to equal a date when it’s between a man and a woman.” Quvenzhané accepts the book, but stands up anyway, lips quirking upward. “And I actually have to go. Good luck with your… research.” And with that, she disappears.  
\--

Thanks to Quvenzhané, Cas enters the darkened ruin of a warehouse fully equipped with a jar of lamb’s blood and several silver knives, one of which is currently in his hand. It glistens where the moon shines through the holes in the roof. The moonlight casts strange shadows, and the long, empty boxes lining the wall obstruct his view. If his earlier observation of the building holds true, the djinn houses its victims in the very centre, where the building is most intact. With that in mind, Cas turns a corner, heading inwards, footsteps as silent as he can make them on the stone floor.

Something falls over somewhere. The sound is muffled by the walls, but Cas is instantly tense. His grip tightens on the blade and he slows his steps to a measured pace. Despite the fact that he has been hunting on his own for a year now, Cas wishes suddenly that he could have Dean protecting his back.

The awful unanticipated weight of how much his misses Dean crashes down on Castiel with the force like nothing he has felt- not even in heaven had he ever experienced such pain.

It's pain in guilt for his own choices and actions, and pain for the unforgiving fact of where the fault lies. Something in his chest tightens, and Cas wonders, not for the first time, if the reason he still carries this weight so heavily is because what he felt for Dean was more than friendship.

If it was love.

The combination of that pain, that regret, and that _love_ makes him physically stumble, and he holds out his hands, ready to catch himself before he hits the uneven floor.

And then, without warning, his falling is halted and reversed. Cas finds himself pinned against the concrete wall, meeting the electric-blue and glowing gaze of the djinn he is supposed to be hunting. Something pins his grace and, although Cas reaches for it, he can't free it. Wishing desperately that he hadn’t fallen from heaven, fallen and seen all the other angels streak out of the sky one night without apparent cause, Castiel attempts to twist his hand enough to sink the bloodied silver blade into the monster.

The djinn’s eye blaze brighter at the movement, grip tightening on Cas’ forearms. Sudden pressure on his wrist forces him to drop the blade, and it clatters to the floor, useless and out of reach. Still pressing its body against his to keep him in place, the djinn raises one heavily tattooed hand up so it rests just shy of Cas’ forehead.

Cas makes one last desperate bid for freedom, maneuvering his hand in the djinn’s grip so his fingertips just catch hold of the hilt of one of the silver knives he has tucked into the inside of his jacket. Yet before he can shift it enough to give the djinn so much as a papercut, he feels the cool press of the creature’s index finger on his forehead.

Everything goes dark.

\--

Someone’s knocking when Cas wakes up. He’s comfortable, lying on a soft mattress and sprawled out under a warm duvet. He doesn’t want to move, but the knocking comes again.

Irritated, he opens his eyes, expecting the motel owner to have come with the bill. Instead, he sees a white-walled bedroom. The bed he’s in is at the centre of the room, covered in a king-sized green quilt and, as Cas looks around, memories come rushing back- last night, the warehouse, Quvenzhané…

Cas’ eyes turn to the door, the image of djinn before everything went black still clear in his mind, and there is Dean. Leaning against the door with the knuckles of his left hand resting against the wood, Dean Winchester stands watching Cas with an affectionate smile on his face. His plaid shirt hangs casually, unstained with blood, his posture is relaxed, without the tension the weight of the world weary brings, and his eyes are so full of life that Cas finds himself lurching out of the bed and into Dean’s arms.

Dean laughs, and the shock of pain to that spot in Cas’ chest nearly knocks him over. But then Dean’s arms are around him, and the hurt quells a little. Still, Cas freezes for a moment, confused. Why are Dean’s arms around him? Dean is distant around Cas, all smiles and controlled breathing- restrained. Dean seems to feel Cas stilling, and he shifts, one hand trailing down to Cas’ lower back, and the other up into his hair. There’s pressure- soft and ever so slightly damp- on Cas’ forehead and he looks up.

“You- you were dead.” Cas gets out eventually. Dean’s arms tighten around him, pulling him closer, fingers digging into the material of the pyjamas Cas seems to be wearing. Pyjamas that certainly aren’t his. “You were definitely dead.”

“It’s alright, Cas.” Dean’s voice is muffled by Cas’ hair, and his fingertips trace patterns on Cas’ back, which is strangely soothing yet makes him shiver. “It was just a dream.”

“You were dead.” Cas steps away from Dean. There’s hurt in Dean’s eyes, but it soon disappears under concern, and he reaches a hand out, placing it on Cas’ shoulder. But Cas persists. “You were dead. I- I killed you.”

Dean shushes his choked words, pulling him back into his embrace. “Dude, I’m fine.” he says, and Cas knows he’s trying to help, but still he flinches away from Dean’s touch. His mind is revolting- his vast, ancient mind that has seen death and life and the beginning of the world, is revolting. Dean has died and lived so many times, but Cas has always been able to feel Dean’s soul thrumming with life before. He had known, with the power of heaven coursing through his grace, that he was still alive. But when Cas reaches for his grace now, the well is unattainable. It's as if he doesn't have a grace any more. Dean isn't quite complete without the blinding beauty of his soul unfurling from his very being. But he is there. His hand is warm on Cas' shoulder and something in his eyes speaks of the Dean he knows.

Dean is alive. The pain in Cas' chest has shifted; now it's constricting rather than relieving. Cas feels like he’s being crushed, like there’s a heavy weight on him, and he can’t breathe. Every breath he sucks in doesn’t seem to contain enough oxygen to re-inflate his lungs. He knows he’s shaking, but he can’t seem to stop; air is huffing in and out of his parted lips fast enough for it to feel like he is barely breathing at all.

He’d imagined Dean’s return so many times. He’d imagined selling a soul, retrieving his grace and forging his way into heaven or hell or wherever Dean had ended up after Cas had damned him. He’d considered so many paths, pursued so many leads, but never had he actually thought Dean would stand in front of him again.

Cas tries to focus on his breathing, but only succeeded in turning his sped-up breathing into hyperventilation. Panicked, he realises that there's blackness at the edges of his vision, and he begins pulling in the breaths with greater effort, sucking in lungful after lungful of air. His vision blurs, this time with the unfamiliar wetness of tears.

"Cas? Cas, breathe! Breathe." Dimly Cas notices Dean's face in front of his own. "Breathe with me. In for eight. Come on." It takes effort, but Cas locks eyes with Dean and pulls in the oxygen. The weight on his chest alleviates, just for a second. Dean must see the change in Cas' face, because he grins a little, eyes crinkling. "Hold for four," he instructs, hands moving from from Cas' shoulders to his cheeks. Cas nods automatically, but it's harder to hold the weight than to lift it. "Out for eight," Dean insists, breathing out the air with him. "And again..."

It takes time, but eventually the weight lifts entirely, and Cas can breathe again. He's curled up on the bed, face tear-stained, and his head in Dean's lap. "Dean?" He asks once he's regained his voice. "Where are we?"

Dean's fingers freeze in Cas' hair. "In our room, Cas," he says, a tinge of fear in his tone, overlaid with the familiar forced humour of a man who had lost too much.

"Dean, explain yourself," Cas commands, rolling over so he can look him in the eyes.

Dean looks fairly nonplussed. "We're in our bedroom. In our house.” He frowns and puts a hand to Cas' forehead. The Djinn’s face flashes into Cas' mind, its face closer to his than Dean’s is, but its hand in the same spot. The weight begins to descend on his chest again, and he squeezes his eyes closed in an attempt to dispel the image.

When he’s looking at his own eyelids, it’s a lot easier to remember how human he is. It makes him realize all over again that he can't utilize all that made him an angel. Back when grace coursed through him, his eyes were never truly closed- he still saw, but at a subatomic level, and it’s so different to be fallen. Clearly the djinn has sent him into a dream based on his deepest desires- or is it fears? Sam told him once, handing over a cup of coffee over to where Cas sat, ensconced in the library. Sam had told him how to get out as well, but Cas’ infinite memory is not what it was, and he can’t remember.

He should ascertain what his circumstances are.

Cas opens his eyes. Dean looks down on him, worry furrowing his brow. “You alright?” he says gently.

“Sorry,” Cas apologises, wondering how best to figure out what’s going on. He settles for the simplest way, and stretches out on the bed, yawning, as if he knows exactly what’s going on. “What will we be doing today, Dean?”

The familiar smile breaks out on Dean’s face again, clearly relieved Cas is fine. Nonetheless, he proceeds with caution edging his words. “Well you’re off work, there’s two families downstairs probably wondering what’s happened to the breakfast they were hoping for, and we've got our lunchtime event today. Other than that,” Dean smirks and resumes his stroking of Cas’ hair, “we have the day to do as we please.”  
\--

As soon as he decides that Cas isn’t suffering from amnesia, Dean heads down and starts commandeering the kitchen, filling it with a variety of smells. To his surprise, Cas feels hunger stir within him when Dean starts frying up some bacon, and he moves away from the smell. It smells like the bacon cheeseburgers his Dean so often consumed. Cas forcefully shoves the thought away, focusing on something- anything- else in this new environment. The sounds of chatter coming from another room along the wooden-walled hallway draw his attention, and, curious, he starts to head along it.

“Cas?” It’s the same nickname. Cas turns back, uncomfortably aware of the absence of the familiar weight of his trench coat on his shoulders. He’s dressed in jeans and a shirt, the first he could find in the small closet in his- in their- room, and he strongly suspects that the shirt is Deans- it smells like him, only without the undertones of gunpowder he usually associates with Dean’s clothing.

Dean hands him a plate- a steaming dish with a selection of bacon, eggs, baked beans, and some other yellowish substance that Cas cannot identify spread out over the surface. “That’s for Jake- hungry little monster-” he says, pointing through to the dining room with his free hand, “and the pancakes will be ready for Chloe in a minute.”

Half way down the paneled hallway, a small figure moves into view, and he freezes. It's a little girl, with long blonde hair and eyes so like the ones he sees in the mirror that it scares him- _Claire._

She's bloody and bruised, clothing torn, and the remembers the hurt in her eyes like it was yesterday. Dean may have taught him free will but the guilt he felt for separating Claire from her father was a different kind of lesson.

"Claire." She doesn't respond, only stares at him with empty, sad eyes. "I'm sorry." He tells her, aware that if this is a dream universe she will not know what he's talking about. Again she says nothing, and Castiel closes his eyes in an attempt to calm himself again. But when he opens his eyes she's gone, and Cas notices that the plate of food in his hands is rapidly cooling.

He shakes his head and moves in, out into an open dining room. The entire place seems to be lived in and worn, decorated not unlike the Men of Letters bunker, and filled with people sitting around tables eating.

“Cas!” A small bundle of blue and purple attaches itself to Cas’ ankles, and he nearly drops the plate he is holding. Frowning, he tries to figure out what is uttering such a high-pitched sound. Eventually, the little girl- for that is who it is- moves away and smiles up at him. “Has Dean got my pancakes?” she asks, and Cas realizes this must be ‘Chloe’.

“Hello,” he answers uncertainly, following her over to her table. She hoists herself up into a seat that seems to be modified for her small frame.

“Hey Cas.” Cas turns at the familiar voice, recognizing the cadences of Sam Winchester’s voice. What he sees surprises him: Sam sits at the head of the table, looking fondly at Chloe, arm around a smiling, blonde-haired woman.

“Is that for Jake?” The woman beside Sam has kind eyes. She taps a little boy, incredibly similar to Dean in facial features, on the shoulder and gestures for him to put away the pad of paper on which he is currently colouring a vivid picture. Castiel peers over, brow furrowing when he sees the sun in the image is blue. “Cas?” The woman repeats. Shaking himself, Cas nods and sets the plate down.

In a last-ditch hope, Cas turns to Sam. “Have you and Dean been on any cases recently?” he asks, watching Sam’s face. But no recognition or awareness flickers across his features; there’s only confusion and so he waves off the words as he has seen Dean often do when he says the wrong thing. He needs to think. Almost running, Cas attempts to retreat to the kitchen, only to see Dean walk out as he tries to head in.

“You okay?” Dean puts down the glass he’s carrying, gently settling a hand on Cas’ wrist to slow him down. Cas opens and closes his mouth like a fish- like the little grey fish heaving itself up onto the beach millennia ago- unsure what to say.

“Hey.” Smiling, Dean leans in. Confused, Cas watches him approach, unsure if this Dean is just less conscious of 'personal space' or if something has happened that he is unaware of. He opens his mouth to ask but before he can do much as utter a word Dean’s lips are covering his own.

Castiel freezes and- almost hysterically, he notices- thinks that it's probably good he isn't still holding a plate because it would be on the floor. It's an unexpectedly human thing to observe, especially when the rest of him is rebelling about how right it feels to be touching Dean.

And then Dean’s face, bashed and bloody at his own hands, flashes into Cas' mind. _I would want my first kiss with Dean to be with the real one._ The thought pops unbidden into Castiel's mind, and it jolts him to his senses. Reeling, lips tingling, he jerks his face away from Dean, stepping back to re-establish the familiar distance between them. Briefly, he meets Dean's eyes- not for more than a second, but more than long enough to see the hurt evident in his best friend's eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Cas mutters, and Dean nods, fingers loosening from around Cas’ wrist. After a moment of silence, Cas continues. “Let’s sit down,” he suggests.  
\--

Cas slides into the chair beside the woman at Sam’s side, uneasily searching for something to fix his eyes on. Someone passes him a plate of lumpy yellow that he eventually identifies as scrambled eggs. He wants to dig in, but there’s a pervading sense of wrong as thick as sulphur in the air, and so he sits, ramrod straight, and listens to the conversation.

“You still okay to look after the kids tomorrow?” The woman asks, tucking a bib into Chloe’s shirt. The question seems to be directed at both Castiel and Dean, and Cas flicks his gaze to Dean just long enough to determine that he doesn’t need to answer.

“Sure, Jess,” Dean’s mouth is full of sausage and his words come out muffled. Quickly, Cas turns his head away so Dean won’t see the slight upturn to his lips. His eyes catch sight of something else- a small girl with blonde hair standing at the other end of the room.  
Her hair is tatty, her clothes too large, and her face and eyes are red. She can’t be more than thirteen, and something about her is familiar. Squinting, Cas sees the paths of many tears are etched onto her cheeks and, as Cas watches, she raises a hand and points at him.

In an instant Cas is out of his chair and half-way across the room, words in his throat to ask her what she wants. He’s no more than an arm's length away from her when he recognizes her face.

It’s Claire again. But the Claire he saw not five minutes ago was the young, scared girl who had unwittingly made Jimmy Novak give himself up as a vessel. This girl is much older, but still clearly Claire.

Dean's hand is abruptly on his elbow, slowing Cas’ mad dash across the room, watched by another breakfasting family. He looks back into Dean's worried eyes, trying to get him to let go, then turns to confront Claire.

She's gone again.

Cas feels a hand on his shoulder and spins, knocking it away, before he realises that it’s still Dean. “You alright?” Dean asks gently, “You’re worrying me, Cas.”

“You didn't see Claire?" He asks, pointing to where she stood.

Dean still looks confused, only now worry- so much like the worry in his eyes when Naomi's Castiel stood before him and insisted all was fine when Dean knew it wasn't- tints his expression too. "Who's Claire, Cas? You need to take a minute?"

 _And now?_ Cas asks himself, struggling to isolate reality. It's like having Lucifer, his brother, in his head again. There is no obvious divide between fantasy and reality and if Castiel is, as he believes he must be, stuck in a Djinn dream... Then there is only a divide between fantasy and fiction.

Dean still awaits his answer, and Cas can tell from the nervous movements of his hands that he is worried- it's a motion he associates with Dean's worry for when Sam is unwell. He saw it when Sam said yes, when he was Lucifer's vessel, when he had no soul, had no wall to hold back the memories of hell because Castiel tore it down, saw Lucifer in a warped reality, fought to complete the trials to close hell and spat blood into napkins behind Dean's back. He cannot tell this Dean that something isn't right because, although he is fictive, Castiel can't shake the desire to see him happy and alive again- untroubled.

 _And when we want something, we lie._ “I’m just tired,” Cas says, looking at the ground, “I’m going to rest for a moment.” Dean nods, still frowning, but lets Cas go.

Cas makes his way over to the sink and starts cleaning up the dishes, first scorching and then cutting his hands as he clumsily tries to get a grip on how the process works.

Soon after the sounds of cutlery die down, Dean appears in the kitchen and picks up a cloth. For a minute, they wash and dry in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

“You’re not alright,” Dean says eventually. Cas doesn’t meet his eyes, but the soapy suds splash up a bit higher on the sink at Dean’s words.

“I am fine,” he tries to reassure Dean, but can tell it’s not working. Carefully, he withdraws his hands from the bubbly water and turns to face Dean, water dripping onto the floor. He crosses the space between them and takes Dean’s dry hand in his own. Dean’s grip is firm and Cas squeezes his hand back, directing his gaze at Dean. Their eyes meet properly. “I’m fine.”

Dean believes him.  
\--

When Dean hands Cas a bundle of silverware and asks him to set it up in the dining room, Cas gapes. “This is sufficient cutlery to feed twenty people,” he observes, eyeing the dining room with a critical eye. It’s pleasant- homey, Dean would say- with wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling and a deep red carpet floor, but it’s unlikely that the scattered tables would accommodate twenty, even if their bedrooms could. “Who are you- we,” he corrects hastily, “expecting?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone?” Careful not to drop anything, Cas sets down the utensils on the nearest table- a square job he can see Dean had a hand in.

Dean shrugs. “Everyone- Sam and Jess with Jake and Chloe, Anna and Jo, Kevin, Bobby and Ellen, my parents, Balthazar, Gabriel,” Dean makes a face when Cas’ brothers are mentioned, “Chuck, Crowley and Rowena, Jody an’ Donna... It’s a lotta people, Cas.”

Surveying the room, Dean fails to notice Cas’ confused tilting of his head and furrow of his brow until he turns to face him. “You okay, Cas?”

The list of people who are- who should be- dead would be suspicious to question, so Cas begins on a more cautious note. “I thought you and Crowley didn’t get on,” he ventures, picking a vase up off the table Dean is trying to move.

Dean’s grunts out a laugh. “We don’t.”

“Then why is he coming?”

Raising his eyebrows, Dean straightens up and faces Cas. “I think you invited him, Cas.” Wandering over to start moving the next table, Dean bumps into Cas, making him stumble. Fingers trail down Cas’ side, hook at his hips, they make goosebumps fly up Cas’ side. Confused, Cas looks at Dean just in time to see him wink.

“Dean?” he asks, unsure as to why Dean is exhibiting the usual signs of flirtation around him. “What is the occasion?”

“Dude,” Dean protests, spinning round with an offended look on his face, “it’s our five year anniversary since we opened this place, as well as our year anniversary of getting together- Sam says this shit’s important and we have to make a big deal of it.”

It’s not that Castiel didn’t hear what Dean said after “our anniversary of getting together”; it was more that he chooses to ignore it. Together. He thinks back to the morning, with Dean’s casual touches, strangely intimate despite their innocence. He remember the kiss Dean pressed to his forehead after he came out of his panic attack.

He supposes it should have been obvious when Dean broke their carefully set boundaries in the dining room and kissed him.

He and Dean are romantically involved.

Cas stands stock still, an automatic processing reaction from when his consciousness was bigger than the Chrysler building and the basic movements of his vessel seemed insignificant in comparison to the fate of the world. This is not Dean. This is not the Dean who stabbed him in the chest when they first met and later declared him his best friend, nor is it the Dean who sacrificed himself for Sam over and over, only to see him succumb to the demon blood, to Lucifer, to his lack of soul. Nor is it the Dean who begged Cas to fight Naomi and had to watch Cas sink the forged metal of his angel blade into Dean’s chest.

But this Dean feels love for Castiel, former angel of the lord.

“Ah Squirrel, I see your decorating skills haven’t improved- you know, I’d be delighted to offer my help.” The British accent is impossible to mistake, and Cas nearly drops the cutlery again.

Dean frowns, slamming down the next plate with a little more force than necessary. “Castiel,” Crowley greets him with a slap on the shoulder, then gestures to a red-haired woman behind him, “remind me if I’ve ever introduced you to my dear mother.”

“No, I do not believe you have.” Whatever Crowley says in return doesn’t get processed by Cas’ distinctly human brain, because Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Ash, and Anna walk in.

Jo and Anna amble in, hand in hand, waving cheerily at Cas. His sister, Anael. A warm feeling swells in his chest and it takes Cas a moment to identify it as happiness for Anna- she has found happiness in human form through Jo- but she herself is human. She was never an angel. His head spinning, Cas wanders over to greet them.

“Cassie!” Anna squeals, throwing her arms around him. After a moment, he remembers the appropriate response, and gingerly wraps his arms around his sister. In Heaven, angels do not touch except to share thoughts, and it is an entirely spiritual connection. The warmth of Anna, the smell of her hair- strawberries?- is much more grounding, and he breathes it in.

“Oi, Cas,” Jo grins. “Get off my girlfriend.”

“My apologies.”

“I’d’ve thought Dean-o here would’ve increased your sense of humour, not stunted it, Cas.” The voice is directly behind Cas, and he freezes.

Gabriel.

“Brother.” Cas addresses Gabriel, remembering only after his words have been uttered that, in this universe, they may not be brothers. And perhaps Gabriel did not end up sprawled on the floor of a hotel, wings seared onto the floor. And perhaps Cas did not have to mourn his brother in the only way he knew how- free will.

“Hi to you too, little bro!” Gabriel’s reply is enthusiastic, and Cas chooses to cherish the moment, following his brother over towards Sam and his family.

“Where you going, Cas? You okay?” Concerned, Dean catches Cas’ arm and ever so gently steers him over to the last unoccupied table- one just for two- in the centre of the room. His hands come up to frame Cas’ face, thumb catching at his cheekbones as Dean pulls him forward so their lips _just_ brush. It banishes all thought from Cas’ mind- once an impossible feat, but now easily accomplished by the Righteous Man- and he can only nod in silence and lean forward to try and taste Dean again.

After a moment someone wolf-whistles, and Dean pulls back, hand sliding from Cas’ shoulder to rest at his hip, tugging them together so they stand shoulder to shoulder. There’s that soft, slightly damp pressure that Cas is beginning to recognize as one of Dean’s quick kisses on his head, and then the hand slips away.

Dean claps his hands. “Hey guys!” he yells, still smiling. “Shut the hell up.”

All eyes turn to them and Cas freezes, posture more reminiscent of a visiting dignitary than Dean’s- Dean’s _boyfriend_. Dean’s speaking with a beer in his hand and addressing the whole room in the fond way reserved for the family that, in the words of Bobby Singer, does not end with blood.

With considerable effort, Cas tunes back in to Dean’s words. “So let’s raise a beer to another five years of bed, breakfast, and you guys using our place as a somewhere to crash after you’ve had one too many.” Everyone laughs and raises their own glasses- it’s a customary gesture of celebration, as far as Cas can understand.

Numbly, Cas raises the beer on the table in front of him, relieved to recognize the label. Dean leans over, aiming for Cas’ lips again, but at the last second he swerves and kisses him on the cheek. Even after that last barest brush of lips, Cas still flinches, and Dean looks pained. But nobody notices as someone- someone Castiel distantly recognizes as Garth- starts up some music; it’s familiar and comforting: strains of rock music that used to fill the Impala as she drove down highways and dirt roads and, just once, the roads of heaven.  
\--

The lunch itself is like Heaven, Cas thinks when the music dies down and everyone finds a seat again. The beer flows, the wine pours, and there is more pie than Cas has seen in a long time.

He sits, surrounded by the dead, dying, and gone, but, unlike in Heaven, he knows it is not right. Dean must sense some of the fear in Cas, but he doesn’t question it, only reaches a hand out to Cas beneath the table, entwines their fingers, and pauses in his conversation with Jo to give Cas a concerned look.

Cas jumps when he feels Dean’s skin against his, and he thinks he sees a flash of hurt in Dean’s eyes as he withdraws his hand. If there’s one thing Castiel cannot bear to see, it is the pain of Dean Winchester. Curiously, cautiously, he slips his hand back into Dean’s.

The djinn’s world must be based on his desires, he thinks as Dean’s thumb traces circles on the back of Cas’ hand, for this is a moment worthy of Heaven’s eternal preservation.

Cas slots the last dish into its place in the cabinet and hangs up the dishcloth, wiping his hands carefully on it before he straightens. Doing the dishes is not a familiar action to him, but he imagines splashing the bubbles at Dean, sharing the dishcloth… Jerking himself out of his foolish idealisms, he thinks he would like to explore this home of theirs. Wondering where to start, he turns to leave the kitchen, but a framed picture by the microwave catches his eye.

The photo within the dark frame is familiar, but subtly different. Dean, Sam, Bobby, Jo, Ellen, and him once stood in Bobby’s living room and thought the Apocalypse would truly come and be the end of days, would not be averted by two boys, an old drunk, and a fallen angel. It’s that photo, but Bobby stands tall and strong on healthy legs and, if Cas squints, he could swear that he and Dean are holding hands.

Everyone looks happy in this picture, Cas observes, and he wishes he could show Dean that somewhere- even if only in a djinn dream-, that night was spent happily.

“Cas?” Dean’s watching him, a heavy box in his arms.

“Yes, Dean?” he replaces the photo, hastily rearranging the sadness on his face into something more presentable while his back is turned.

“If you want to go all nostalgic, babe,” Dean smirks, and Cas starts at the pet name, “you should take a look at these photo albums Mom sent.” He nods his head towards the box in his arms.

“I would like that,” Cas decides, and steps forward to take the box. It’s heavier than he expects, but he stumbles over to the couch in the living room without incident, dropping it on the wooden floor and taking a seat beside it.

He unfolds the flaps and draws out the album, marked clearly in the corner with unfamiliar, neat handwriting: _The Bed and Breakfast_.

In the first picture, he and Dean stand in front of a building- the building he’s now inside, if he’s not wrong- holding a piece of paper between them. Cas can see he’s looking at Dean rather than at the camera, and he looks... happy. Content.

Curious, he flips through the pictures, watching him and Dean renovate the building more and more in each picture. Sometimes Sam shows up, and there are multiple shots of him and Dean drinking beer in half-destroyed, half restored rooms. A man Cas recognizes as John Winchester works on the garden, a blond-haired woman at his side. Small children- Sam’s, but much younger- dart around the piles of cardboard boxes.

Half way through, the kitchen takes shape, and he sees various shots of him, at the stove, with flour and milk and piles of other packets beside him. He’s wearing an apron, white and stained and tied at his waist. In the next shot he’s getting ready to toss a pancake, saucepan held out and at the ready. In the third the kitchen is covered in mix. And in the last, he’s at the table with Dean, and there’s a stack of pancakes ceiling-high between them.

[](http://s354.photobucket.com/user/suchcandor/media/pancakes%20table4%20copy%20copy_zpshihlmmlq.jpg.html)

[](http://s354.photobucket.com/user/suchcandor/media/pancakes2%20copy%20copy_zpsleodsb8p.jpg.html)

He stops on the last page. It’s him and Dean again, in front of the house with John, Mary, and Sam. The house looks finished, but that’s not the only thing that’s different.

“And that was our first kiss.” Tone fond, Dean lowers himself onto the floor opposite him, glass of amber liquid alcohol in one hand.

“I- We look happy,” Cas murmurs. He has heard that, in human dreams, pictures and words are never constant, so he reaches out a hesitant finger and touches where his and Dean’s fingers interlink at their sides. It stays, glossy beneath his fingertips.

“I’d hope so.”

Still studying the picture, Castiel absently reaches a hand out, mimicking the photo. Dean takes it, tugging until Cas is no longer leaning against the sofa but instead against Dean’s side. And Cas chooses not to resist; he lets his back muscles relax so Dean’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Maybe he always has been.

“Tell me like I wasn’t there.” At his words, Dean shifts behind him, head craned to inspect Cas’ face.

“You alright?”

He meets Dean’s eyes and lies again: “I’m fine.” And again, Dean believes him. “I want to know what it was like for you,” Cas insists, sliding the photo album into Dean’s lap.

“Okay,” Dean says, and accepts the battered gallery of their lives- of this life. “Should I start with when you wandered into Harvelle’s with no shoes on and asked me to make you a chocolate volcano or when you tipped your beer all over yourself trying to ask me out?”

“What’s a chocolate volcano?” Cas wonders, trying to connect the image in his mind’s eye of a mountain spitting lava to something edible.

Dean throws his head back and laughs, poking Cas in the side. “Like hell I know,” he grins, then flicks back a few pages and takes a deep breath. “Jo abandoned me for bar duty that day, and everybody and their mother- literally in Crowley’s case- wanted me to make them drinks. I went out to grab some more ice and then, out of nowhere, you stumble in...”

Because he’s still nervous and scared, Cas finds himself glaring critically at the couch and wondering if he can sleep on that instead of facing Dean in the large bed it seems they share.

“Cas?” The clock above the fireplace announces that it’s way past midnight, but it’s still weird to see Dean leaning sleepily against the doorframe, wearing a pair of pajama trousers and nothing else.

“Yes?”

“Come to bed,” Dean asks, holding a hand out. Fingers twisting unseen in the duvet in his arms, Cas shakes his head. And there it is again- the glimpse of a very childlike Dean who is scared Cas will leave him- a scared Dean. But he stands his ground.

Dean straightens up and walks over, gently lifting the sheets from Cas’ arms. “You take the bed,” he says, and gives Cas an emphatic shove towards the stairs.

“Dean-“ Fearful for the look in Dean’s eyes, Cas catches himself at the doorway and turns back. “You don’t have to-“

“You need your space, Cas, until you figure out,” he waves his hand vaguely, “whatever it is that’s going on.”

And with that, Dean turns away from him and starts to stuff the duvet into its covers.  
\--

So Dean sleeps on the sofa. Of course, since Cas still dislikes sleep, he finds himself roaming the hallways of their building, trying to juggle all the thoughts that no longer quite fit inside his mind. On the first night that Dean sleeps on the sofa, Cas ends up in the armchair across from him. Staring at Dean’s form under the duvet, he frowns and yawns and thinks.

He can’t stop thinking.

For the first time since- since he said goodbye to the Winchesters, he considers the path they were pursuing: trying to close the gates of Hell. He knows Sam cannot have succeeded in this because he has encountered demons on his travels. Perhaps Sam hunts alone, as he used to. Perhaps he found a life, a dog, a woman.

And what of Dean? Is he buried? Burned? In Heaven?

Angel radio, as his Dean called it, has been silent since, as he burned the bones of an unfortunate spirit one night, Castiel closed the connection. He reaches for it now, reaches to reopen the direct line to his brothers, but there is nothing. All the angels have fallen.

There is a sound akin to static though, and Castiel listens to it. It is soothing- an absence of something is the appearance of another, a rebirth so to speak-, and Castiel falls asleep to it, hand half-reaching out to the man on the sofa.

If Dean noticed him in the armchair, he didn’t remark on it.

Djinn Dean, as Cas calls him in his mind, is so alike to the Dean he knows- that he knew- that it hurts. The glaring difference is in occupation (though Dean did once suggest they open a bed and breakfast in Vermont somewhere once) and the existence of their relationship. Or lack of it.

So when Cas finally opens his eyes in the morning, surprised at the number of cricks in his back and neck, he doesn’t expect to see Chloe and Jake clambering onto the chair beside him.

“Uncle Cas!” Chloe squeals, hands grabbing Cas’ shirt and tugging at him until he sits up. She and Jake are perched on the arms of the chair, bouncing up and down and fiddling with their little baseball caps.

“Morning.” It’s been a while since he last interacted with a child, so Cas is extra cautious as he straightens in the chair- even more so when Jake slides into his lap and starts babbling about a park and a picnic and how hard he’s been practicing his catching.

Laughter echoes through from the kitchen, and Cas suddenly notices that the sofa is empty, sheets folded neatly at the end. The blonde haired woman- Jess- from the day before wanders in, hand in hand with Sam, who chats animatedly with Dean, grinning.

“You slept on that chair?” Jess tsks disapprovingly, brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Cas admits, distracted by watching Chloe try to climb up on the back of the chair behind him, using his shoulder as a step. Concerned, Cas twists around to follow her progress, hands unconsciously hovering beside her.

Sam claps his hands together, cheerful in orange plaid with the sleeves rolled back, hair in disarray from where Dean must have mussed it. “You ready to go, Jess?” His voice is tender when he speaks to her, and Cas notices how similar it is to Dean’s tone with him.

Nodding, Jess crouches down by the armchair and pulls Jake, then lifts Chloe into a hug. “Be good,” she tells them, before whispering her thanks to Cas.

The moment Jess and Sam walked out the door, Jake scrambles off Cas’ lap and all but runs over to Dean, who is busy in the kitchen packing food.

Lifting Chloe off the chair and, as per her persistent demands, onto his shoulders, Cas headed through to stand beside Dean. “Where are we going?” he asked curiously, helping Chloe down onto the countertop beside him.

“Park,” Dean mumbled through a mouthful of peanut butter, the rest of which he was spreading on some bread.

“Park,” Chloe repeated proudly, and reached over to help herself to some of her own peanut butter. Dean moved the jar out of her reach, promising her she could have some later.

Cas knew that Bobby has taken Dean to the park when he was a child, and they had thrown a ball at each other for several hours, but he didn’t entirely understand the reasoning. Perhaps it functioned as family bonding, or some other human concept. “Why?”

“‘Cause it’s fun.” The look on Dean’s face is almost indignant as he scoops up Chloe in one arm and the picnic basket in the other. “Jake!” he hollers, heading towards the door. “If you wanna come get your ass out here.”

Cas smiles a secret smile at the image Dean presents- a suburban dad, almost- and follows him out of the door.  
\--

Cas really doesn’t understand sand castles. They are fragile constructs, weakened by every squeeze of the building material and malleable to the point of idiocy. Water either strengthens them or destroys them so utterly that nothing can be salvaged- in short, they make no sense.

Absently, he wonders if this somehow satisfies the human wish of control- the ability to make and unmake as they choose and to ‘play God’ as Gabriel once called it.

“You wanna make the moat?” Jake’s voice at his side pulls Cas out of his thoughts. Sand covers every inch of Jake’s clothes, floppy brown hair, and hands. He can feel the sand, gritty and slightly wet, when Jake grabs his hand and tugs him over to the others without waiting for an answer.

Jake’s sandcastle is a surprisingly complex structure, mostly thanks to Dean, who is teaching Chloe how to make little turrets and windows with her spade and a couple of kiddy knives. Almost immediately, Jake drops Cas’ hand and sets to work transforming some wood chips into what Cas can only assume is meant to be a door or drawbridge.

Pausing in the construction of a turret, Dean throws Cas a plastic blue spade and pats the ground beside him. Uncertain, Cas gets to his knees. “Just dig here- but not too deep,” Dean explains, drawing a line in the sand with his finger. He nods at his nephew with a fond smile- “Jake just wants a moat, not the Grand Canyon.”  
\--

Cas remembers when his father created the land that would one day be the Grand Canyon, remembered the careful placement of the river, of the soft and hard bands of rock so that the masterpiece of erosion would shape the land over time. “Patience,” his father had said- or at least that’s what Gabriel told him their Father had said. “Some things take time.”

His Father had always had more patience than him, Cas realises. The moat is barely a few centimeters deep and not even all the way round Jake’s masterpiece. Chloe gets bored of windows and turrets and, dungarees more of a sandy brown than blue, throws down her shovel and runs over to help Cas. “Help,” she tells him, stubbornness shining in her hazel eyes, and plonks herself down beside him.

They dig together- dig deep and all around; they create a moat deep enough that Jake nearly sprains an ankle falling in on the way to ‘fix the turret’. And when, at a height nearly as tall as Jake’s spindly eight year-old self, the castle is pronounced done, Dean announces they’re all going for ice-cream. “Creative kids get ice cream,” he tells them as he helps Cas up.

“What’s your favourite flavour, Uncle Cas?” Jake asks.

Cas pauses his brushing off of the sand that seems to get _everywhere_ , confused. “I am thousands of years old- I am not a child.” He freezes then, remembering that here he is the same age as his vessel- approximately forty- and his past holds no meaning.

But Jake ignores his words, frowning. “But everybody likes ice cream!”

“That is true, kiddo,” Dean grins, and picks Chloe up. He slips her baseball cap back onto her tousled blond hair from where it had fallen in the sand and starts walking over to the nearest cafe. “But only kids get sprinkles.”  
-

Jo and Anna stand behind the counter, sipping smoothies to ward off the heat, hands entwined. When the bell goes, their faces light up, and both of them run round the counter to say hi. Chloe wants chocolate and Jake wants lemon, and Dean leans cheerfully over the counter to request mint chocolate chip for him and blueberry something-or-other for Cas.

They eat together at one of the little tables under the red awning outside the cafe. The taste of ice cream is unexpectedly nice, Cas decides, pleased that he can’t, at least, taste the molecules any more.

Humans don’t seem to be able to eat ice cream neatly. Within moments of receiving their cones, Chloe’s chin and nose are almost entirely covered in brown, and Jake has sticky lemon-yellow all over his hands from where the ice cream drips down the side of the cone and down his arm.

Dean is laughing at something Jake has said when he looks Cas’ way and snorts. “Cas, man, you got ice cream-” he gestures at his own face, and Cas’ brow furrows. He does have ice cream, that much Dean is right about, but-

Shaking his head, Dean stands up and comes over. He pulls Cas to his feet and brushes his thumb over Cas’ nose. It comes away blue- the colour of his melting ice cream, and Cas finally understands. Dean wipes his thumb off on a napkin, then tilts his head so his forehead touches Cas’. “Dork,” he whispers,” and shifts so he can gently kiss Cas’ nose. 

[](http://s354.photobucket.com/user/suchcandor/media/DCBB25_nosekiss_recolour_zpscehxdpet.jpg.html)

When he pulls back, Cas notices that Jake and Chloe, ice cream finished, have climbed down from their chairs and run back over towards the swings, Anna in tow.

Dean gets up. “Finish your ice cream,” he tells Cas, “I’ll go watch the kids with Anna.” He scoffs down the last bite of his ice cream and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then jogs off after the kids. Cas watches, barely noticing his surroundings, too busy observing Dean, until Jo drops down into the seat Dean was in just a moment ago.

“You ever want that with Dean?” she asks, nodding at where Dean is helping Anna push Jake and Chloe on the swings.

“Dean would make an admirable Father,” Cas admits. It’s true- Dean Winchester has been both a brother and a father to Sam, and in this universe, he would not have the barrier of hunting to prevent it.

Castiel, former angel of the lord, on the other hand, is not- not deserving. He has done so much bad. He has been the one who unleashed leviathans, killed Dean. He who thought himself God can never be a Father- not after what he has done.

He, unlike the Righteous Man, is not worthy.

Thoughtful, he looks back over to Dean, and freezes. Claire. This time she’s the same age as last time, but she bleeds, blood dripping down her clothes and onto the ground. She’s a way away but Cas can see her mouth moving, and knows she’s accusing him again.

This is _not_ his world.

“You okay?” Jo asks, shaking him, “Cas?”

He snaps out of it. “Yes,” he says heavily, “Sorry.”

Jo, still looking concerned, leaves him to his thoughts. Claire is gone when Cas looks back. Later, when Dean comes back and tells him it’s time to go, slipping an arm round Cas’ waist, he wonders what he could have done to deserve Dean’s love.  
\--

Later, darkness falls, and Dean heads out in the Impala to bring Chloe and Jake back home. Cas sits on the wooden porch, swinging his feet. After a while, Mary Winchester walks up the driveway, humming softly. She spots Cas and stops on the stairs.

“You okay, sweetie?” She takes a seat beside him, setting down the box in her arms.

There’s so much he would like to say to Mary Winchester- thanks for setting Dean on the path to be who he is, sorrow for the way that he couldn’t save her, even if this alive Mary wouldn’t understand. So many questions too.

“Do you ever think something is too good to be true?” he settles on asking, gazing up at the stars. If he’s grateful for any part of the fall, it’s that he can see the galaxies shining above him- angels see only heaven and the molecules that make up the space between. The night sky is truly beautiful, and the stars remind him of the freckles littering Dean’s face.

“All the time,” Mary laughs, “but you have to accept that, somehow whatever-it-is has happened.”

Cas thinks back to their afternoon- sunshine on their backs, a castle rising out of nothing, the sweet laughter of Sam’s children, and Dean. They all have their apple pie life now.

Of course, Cas knows what he _should_ do- get out, run, find a way to have a purpose again. Return to saving people, and hunting things, return to the possibility of being angel again. Or else stay here and have his purpose be to stay by Dean's side and love him as he has always longed to. It’s two choices- it’s a decision on whether or not to wholly accept that this world is his secret desires, or get out.

The Impala’s engine rumbles distantly, and there’s the sound of Dean pulling up into the driveway. He looks worried when he sees Cas and Mary sitting on the porch, and exits his car quickly.

“You sure you’re alright?” Mary questions, a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He nods numbly, eyes still on Dean. Distantly, he notices Mary rise to her feet and place the box- brownies, if the smell is anything to go by- at his side. He knows he should have made his mind up by now, but he’s busy memorising every contour of his Dean’s- the real Dean’s- face, and committing it to memory. This Dean, running up the driveway, skids to a stop in front of Cas and takes his face gently in calloused hands.

“Cas? Cas?” His Dean mumbles, pulling Cas into his arms, “You okay?”

And with Dean’s arms tight around him, Cas decides. He breathes in and relaxes. “I’m fine,” he tells Dean, and he means it. And, in that moment, Cas lets himself forget that this isn’t right, that Dean should be dead and buried and Sam brotherless. He completely lets go of the knowledge Gabriel, Balthazar, Jessica, Mary, John and so many others should be dead or dying. He surrenders to it, and lifts his own arms to loop around Dean’s waist.

This is his world now.


	2. Our Temporary Brilliance Turns to Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t imagine Sam being the one who goes inside his head to save him and finding that Cas’s dream world is living a normal life with Dean.
> 
> Don’t imagine them all hanging out and when Dean finally leaves them alone for five minutes Sam trying to explain to Cas that this isn’t real and Cas saying “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Suicide (but not properly? It's to do with the whole "djinn dream" thing)
> 
> We rejoin season 10 canon at 10.01 "Black" here.

_One Year Later_

Dean surprises Cas in the kitchen that evening- at the time he is unpacking the groceries he bought on his way back from work. The task is mundane, sorting what can be put in the fridge from what cannot, but Cas takes pleasure in it. There is order in the task, a rigid simplicity, a mindless job. He has made peace with his choices, but it aids his clarity to escape from his thoughts, lose himself in Dean’s touch.

“Cas?”

Startled, Cas whirls round, nearly dropping the cucumber he’s holding. It’s been a long time since he first woke up in Dean’s bed, but he still half expects to see the whispering soul who follows him instead of his boyfriend. But it is Dean standing in front of him, holding a bouquet of flowers and looking awkward. The flowers are forget-me-nots, a pale blue in colour, and Dean holds them out for Cas to take.

Anxiety forgotten, Cas accepts them, smiling. “Thank you,” he says, and moves forward to press a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. Dean’s cheeks colour, ever so softly, and he, in return, drops a kiss on Cas’ forehead.

“I made us dinner,” Dean tells him shyly, pointing out to the back porch. Sometimes couples eat there on warmer nights, but the weather turned cold a few weeks ago, and no one sits there now. The small area is usually filled with cluttered tables and chairs, but now it’s illuminated by candles and half-working fairy lights, with one table and two chairs in the middle of the warm glow.

Smiling, Cas lets Dean lead him outside, lets him pull out a chair and seat Cas, lets Dean put a soft woolen blanket on his lap and kiss the breath out of him before he takes his own seat. Dean pours them both a beer, whisks a cloth off their burgers- “It’s the presentation that counts,” Dean says defensively when he catches the hint of a laugh on Cas’ lips- and raises his glass.

“To us.”

“To us.”

Dean reaches his free hand across the table and slips his fingers through the gap between Cas’, linking them together.

The food is delicious: the burgers sweet and tender, flavour tempered by the beer, and Cas swallows it down eagerly. For a time they eat in silence, listening to the night. Then Dean clears his throat.

“Cas?” he asks, setting down his fork. Cas follows suit, gaze softening when he sees the tell-tale signs of Dean’s nervousness- the subtly wrinkling brow, the edge to his smile...

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean hasn’t touched his carrots, as usual, and Cas reaches across with the intention to pick up the plate and scrape the vegetables onto his own. But Dean catches his wrist, stopping him.

Confused, Cas tilts his head. The motion is a remnant, left over of the times when the ‘angel radio’ pulsed through his head and made it spin, but it’s enough to make Dean smile shakily.

He’s stood up, pushing back the chair and wincing at the noise it creates when it scrapes the wooden decking. Lifting it with one hand, Dean sets the chair back in place and walks round the tiny table to stand beside Cas, fingers still linked loosely around his wrist with just enough pressure to keep them in contact.

The only sound is their breathing.

Dean’s next breath is a deep one, taken as he sticks his hand in his jeans pocket and sinks down on one knee. His eyes remain on Cas’ when he pulls out a small box, and when he lets go of Cas’ wrist and gulps. 

[](http://s354.photobucket.com/user/suchcandor/media/25_proposal4%20copy_zpsfguaogrd.jpg.html)

Perhaps Cas was never attentive to human custom, perhaps he’d not really been involved in that side of human life since before the years numbered AD, but he knows what this means.

But he has to be sure, so he asks anyway. “Dean, are you asking to perform the marital rites with me?” Dean smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes- there’s tension in the lines of his forehead.

For the barest instant Cas hesitates. Dean, though he wears the plaid and jeans- wears the smile- of the Dean he has fallen in love with, is not the Dean that Cas first wanted to say he loved, whom he first loved. Long ago Cas accepted that he would never leave, that he needed to make the most of what he was given, even if it meant his body lay drained in that lonely warehouse in Wisconsin. Cas takes a deep breath and swallows.

“Of course I will, Dean.”

And Dean surges up, laughter bubbling out of his mouth like a long caged animal freed at last, relieved and fresh. He surges up and fits Cas’ lips to his own, devouring him and pushing the breath from him, and Cas pushes right back. But then Dean withdraws, happiness visible in every inch of his face, whispers “I love you” and presses a tender kiss to Cas’ lips. His own lips are upturned and almost grinning, matching Cas’ own.  
-

Dean puts on Iron Man 3 to celebrate because apparently Cas doesn’t understand pop culture in any reality, but is more than happy to let Dean teach him. If nothing else, it’s an excuse for Cas to curl up on their battered leather couch with Dean and have Dean whisper his favourite lines into Cas’ ear.

The doorbell goes as the camera pans down on the President, suspended between two beams, trapped. Dean disentangles himself from Cas, trailing his hand over Cas’ shoulder blades as he walks through to the hall to see who it is.

Cas focuses on the film again, confused as to why the President doesn’t simply power up the suit himself and be free. He half hears Dean open the door, listening for a second until he realizes it’s Sam, then returning his attention to Tony, Rhodey, and Pepper.

It’s only when Dean and Sam walk into the room together that Cas’ perfect evening- that his perfect life and all the ring on his finger means- crumbles. Sam Winchester walks in, arm in a sling. But that’s not the problem. Because it isn’t Sam Winchester, husband and lawyer, father and pacifist, who just walked into the living room with Dean, a tight smile on his face and worry barely hidden in his eyes. It’s Sam Winchester, hunter. It’s the Sam Winchester who was tainted by the trials and secretly coughing blood and soul out of his mouth behind Dean’s back last time they’d met. It’s Sam Winchester- brotherless, thanks to Castiel.

If Dean notices anything, he doesn’t show it. “Cas an’ me were just watching a movie,” he tells Sam, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re welcome to join us- you know your inner nerd wants to.” Smirking, Dean points at Sam’s sling. “Sammy here managed to injure himself playing baseball with the squirts.”

Sam grimaces, nods, and sits on the couch beside Cas, shoulders tense, hands fisted in his lap. “Sure, Dean.” He says quietly, and Cas winces at the hurt in his tone.

Unaware of the tension, Dean tugs at Cas’ shirt until he curls up in Dean’s embrace again, fingers resuming their stroking of Cas’ hair. Dean’s the only one to speak during the rest of the film, periodically commenting on how damn stupid Tony is to give up something so fantastic. “If I was him, I’d never let that go,” he whispers, and Cas forces a smile because he did let it go, but in another reality. The proof sits beside them on the couch, silent and exuding tension.

The film finishes moments later, and Dean stretches out his arms and legs. Cas watches the play of muscle under Dean’s skin and stretches alongside him, pleased that they match in strength now. As usual, Dean springs to his feet first, turning round and pulling Cas up unnecessarily.

“So Sammy,” Dean begins, nudging his brother, “what’re you doing out here at this time of night?”

Sam raises his eyebrows, eyes still fixated on his brother. “I need to talk to Cas. Alone."

“Okay, fine,” Dean shrugs, squeezes Cas closer to him, then bends down and grabs his empty beer bottle. “I’ll be upstairs,” he tells Cas, and winks.

The second he is gone, Sam levels his glare- because it’s definitely disapproving now- on Cas.

“Hello Sam.”

“Cas,” Sam says shortly.

For a moment longer they stand, impassively, in silence and stare at one another. “It’s good to see you,” Sam admits gruffly, and Cas nods in response.

“Yes.”

 

“What’s going on?” Sam blurts, gesturing to the room- to Cas’ home with Dean. “I turn up and my wife- my wife!- laughs and tells me your address is in the GPS if I can’t remember the way to my own brother’s house,” Sam runs a hand through his hair, agitated, “and I find you watching movies with my brother like you didn’t just kill him and disappear.”

There's still accusation in those last three words, but they are thrown out more as spears- intended to knock Cas down. And they do knock the breath out of him, his mind presenting the image of that Dean's final moments to him again in crystal clarity.

But Cas refuses to be thrown. "That is an accurate summary of events, yes.”

“Can I turn that off?” Sam asks abruptly, gesturing to the credits still playing out on the screen. Cas nods. 

Grabbing the remote, Sam moves to sit down on the couch, hands on his knees. “Cas?” he sounds vulnerable, scared.

“Yes?” Stiffly, Cas joins Sam.

“This isn’t real.” Cas freezes. Upstairs, they hear the click of a lock and Dean’s music starts to play. Seeing that Cas doesn’t reply, Sam presses on. “This is a dream- a djinn dream.” 

Cas nods. “I am aware of that fact.”

At Cas’ words, Sam does a double take, kind eyes narrowing. “You know this is a djinn dream?” he asks incredulously, lowering his tone when he remembers Dean’s presence just a flight of stairs and a thin ceiling away.

Seeing no reason to repeat himself, Cas nods, cocking his head when Sam’s eyes darken with something like sadness.

The corners of Sam’s mouth twitch up at Cas’ familiar tilt, but his brow furrows again quickly. “What happened, Cas?”

“I fell,” Cas’ chooses to look at the floor rather that meet Sam’s gaze, though he can still feel its focus on him. “It appears even fallen angels may be affected by the djinn.”

“And you haven’t- I don’t know- tried to escape?” Sam looks hurt, shoulders hunched under the cover of his blue and grey plaid. “Tried to get back?”

“And why would I do that?” Cas meets Sam’s eyes, nearly looking away again at the sadness in them. “You left, Sam,” Cas reminds him. “There was nothing for me to stay for.”

“Because we need you.” He hasn’t changed- Sam, that is. He still tries to hide hurt behind brief words and doesn’t quite succeed in burying the burdened, broken man beneath them. He is sincere and bluffs his way to being a hunter's standard of fine, as he does now. “We need you back.”

“We?”

Sam visibly braces himself, steeling himself with a steadying breath. “Dean and I.”

“Your Dean is dead.” Cas tells Sam flatly, flinching despite his efforts when the image of Dean pierced by an angel blade leaps to mind, accompanied by the sound of the metal cutting through skin like butter and Dean’s choked off cry that sounded an awful lot like ‘Cas’, which he can never truly forget.

The hurt in Sam’s eyes is apparent now, swelling in brown irises. Sam shifts and meets Cas’ eyes fully. He weighs out each word as if, were he to use just the right amount, he might tip the scale and change Cas’ mind. “Dean’s not dead.”

“He’s dead.” Cas’ voice cracks. “I saw him die, Sam. There’s no one left to bring him back. I know.” Sam looks to him in askance. “I tried.”

Even with the sound of Dean’s music playing in the room across, Cas still hears Sam’s sharp intake of breath at Cas’ words. Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he gets out anything resembling a sentence. “Dean’s not dead.” Sam says resolutely, gaze fixated on something just over Cas’ shoulder. “He’s alive, breathing... and missing.”

Cas twists the ring on his finger- he’s picked up many nervous habits over the last year- and tries to digest this. “How?” he says in the end.

It takes Sam a moment to break the silence that forms after Cas’ question. “A lot happened after you left.” Cas tilts his head to the side. “It’s complicated.”

“Can I come back, Cas?” Dean’s voice is muffled by the door and the 80s rock playing upstairs, but it still makes Sam jump.

“One moment, Dean.”

“You really do love him.” Voice soft, Sam casts a wary eye on the door that leads upstairs. When he looks back, Sam is pleading in all but words. “Cas, you have to come back.”

Dean walks in before Cas can say anything. He punches Sam’s shoulder on his way to stand by Cas, and asks what was so important that he kicked his own brother out of the room. Meanwhile Cas stares raptly at Dean’s face, barely remembering to blink- a reflex he still struggles with- and memorises every detail he can.

He’s going to say no. Of course he is.

The silver ring glints on his finger as a reminder of what he has to stay for. Propped on the mantelpiece and strewn on the coffee table, pictures from his last year tell a little of why he stayed in the first place. They depict moments, those photos. They tell of words, emotions, and days that Cas’ fallible new human memory forgets. Obviously he, once an all-powerful seraph, knows what the course of action should be. After all, it was his first command: ‘Save Dean Winchester. Save the Righteous Man’. And that command did not refer to this Dean.

Dean presses a kiss to Cas’ cheek, another to the ring on his finger. “Jody called,” he tells him, “I need to run over- their truck has broken down again.” Mutely, Cas nods, twisted his head so he can capture Dean’s lips again before he leaves, feel the love swell between them. Smiling, eyes crinkling, Dean waves him and Sam goodbye before walking out the door.

But love and emotion aren’t the only thing Cas has learned from humanity- he has learned selfishness. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he apologises, fiddling with the band of silver Dean has given him. “I can’t.”

Sam breathes in, inhales through his nose, frowns. “Cas,” he says gently, “you and Dean- my Dean- need to fix things.”

Cas opens his mouth to respond. He thinks Sam must see his answer in his eyes, because all of a sudden there’s the feeling of flesh on flesh, a heavy blow to the head, and everything goes black.

When he wakes up, it’s to see determined hazel eyes staring at him. Sam presses some ice to the bruise, Cas can feel forming on his cheek, muttering something about the bunker. “Sorry,” he says, reaching into the back seat for more ice. They’re in the front of the Impala that belongs to his Dean. It’s different to the one Sam would be used to- no initials carved on the body of the car, no bullet cases in the back seat. It’s clean.

Sam hands him something, something cold and metallic. A gun. “You have to kill yourself if you’re going to get out,” Sam explains. He unfolds his long limbs and gets out of the car, bending down once he’s out to speak to Cas through the open window. He eyes the ring on Cas' finger before thoughtfully adding: “There were things Dean didn’t get to tell you, either."

And Sam walks away, into the woods at the edge of the highway they’re parked on. He waves and disappears.

Cas could drive away. He could leave Sam to go back and find his Dean by himself. He could hotwire the Impala, like Dean taught him one afternoon after a victorious hunt, and drive back home to the Dean who put the ring on his finger- who is, unequivocally, his.

The gun, an M19 model, is clearly one of Dean’s. It’s cold- loaded; ready. Half-absent-mindedly, Cas recalls the anatomy of the human body, taught to him as he reconstructed the Righteous Man’s body after he pulled him from Hell. Sliding his hand into position, Cas raises the barrel to the side of his head.

Cas takes a deep breath and slides the silver band off his ring finger, placing it almost reverently on the dashboard of the car.

[](http://s354.photobucket.com/user/suchcandor/media/25_enddream3%20copy3%20copy_zpspendrizu.jpg.html)

He moves the gun back and pulls the trigger.  
\--

For the second time in many moments, Cas opens his eyes. Only this time it’s the exterior of the Men of Letters that greets him, and the vague hum of power in his bones. The last shreds of his grace hum through Jimmy Novak’s body, and Cas comes to realize that someone is untying his wrists, which are suspended above him- the djinn’s work, no doubt.

His senses are back on the plane just slightly above the human standard, and for a moment it disarms him. The constant buzz of angel radio is back, and he feels, ever so distantly, longing. Longing from Dean Winchester. He reels, struggling to pinpoint the feeling. It’s not all of Dean, though- it’s a small part of him, compressed and almost suppressed.

“Cas, you okay?” Sam’s voice penetrates Cas’ mind, and he blinks, pushing down on those extra senses just enough to concentrate on the younger Winchester. Sam helps him down, and hands Cas his trenchcoat.

“Yes,” Cas grunts out, finding his legs unsteady. “How long had I been there?” Shrugging, Sam gestures for them to go into the bunker, pulling a key out of his pocket to open the door.

They’re barely through the doorway before Sam’s phone starts ringing. Shooting Cas an apologetic look, he answers it. The bunker is cleaner than when Cas last saw it. It’s less dusty, fewer crates lie piled in the corner, and he can tell it’s inhabited. There’s one of Sam’s guns on the table he can see through a doorway, a couple of books on the stairs, one of Dean’s old jackets on the back of a chair. The huge console, map laboriously drawn on it, seems to be working, and the whole place smells vaguely of burned burgers.

“Right, right; so, no noticeable crop failures, no mass cattle deaths, nothing?” Sam’s asks the person on the phone, pen scratching away in a notebook he’d pulled from a pocket. If Cas listens hard, he can make out the cadences of a male on the other end of the line.

“No...” Sam disappears through the door, but Cas can still hear him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're right.” He reappears, carrying a huge, leather-bound tome, “I hear you, Mike. Thanks.”

Pausing, Sam gives Cas a thumbs up. “That is a good thing. Alright, well keep me posted if anything does pop up.”

Sam sets down the phone and exchanges it for the book, titled ‘Demonic Possession’. After a moment, though, he sets it down. “I have some explaining to do,” he says ruefully, and, beckoning to Cas, heads through the bunker towards the bedrooms.

He stops in front of Dean’s room. The lights are off, the bed is made... yet it looks cold, uninhabited compared to the rest of the bunker, even with Dean’s painstaking decoration of it. When Sam turns the light on, Cas catches sight of a sheet of paper lying on the bed, and reaches for it.

The creases of its folds are well worn, paper fingerprinted from constant holding. Cas unfolds it gingerly.

SAMMY LET ME GO

Dean’s handwriting is unmistakable, even rushed and printed. Frowning, Cas refolds it and sets it down on the bed. He looks at Sam in askance, but Sam only points back towards the kitchen.

“I’ve been looking for Dean for a long time now,” Sam says as they walk. “He disappeared and I can’t find a trace of him anywhere.”

“Is he not answering the phone?”

Sam shakes his head. Taking a seat at the table, Sam draws his laptop towards him and opens it, clicking a new tab and searching ‘Wisconsin news’.

“Mike told me there’s been some activity in Wisconsin.” It only takes Sam a second to find the article he’s looking for, and he opens the article up, turning the screen so Cas can see. The title reads “Missing Ohio Man Found Slain In Wisconsin”

“How does this relate to Dean?” The light of the bunker casts Sam’s red-rimmed and shadowed eyes into sharp focus, and Cas wonders how he hasn’t fallen apart yet.

“Drew Nealy went missing three years ago after he murdered his wife and kids.” Sam puts his head in his hands, speaking through his fingers. “I know it’s thin, but maybe he was possessed.”

Cas nods his understanding, then remembers Sam can’t see, and clears his throat. “Yes, it is possible.”

“And his death- it could be a hunter. Maybe even Dean.”

There is a brief silence between them. “I miss him,” Cas says mournfully, thoughts straying back to the Dean who never really was. Abruptly remembering, Cas glances down at his hand, not truly expecting to see anything. Nonetheless, his throat feels curiously swollen when he sees that no ring adorns his finger. “Why would he just disappear?”

“Who says he had a choice?” Sam points out, emerging from behind his hands.

“Well then, who wrote the note?” His question is greeted by a shrug from Sam. “If there’s any chance... any chance at all that Dean is still...” Cas trails off, unsure how to vocalize his fear.

“Still... even remotely Dean.” Sam finishes for him.

Cas pretends not to see the wetness in Sam’s eyes, choosing instead to get to his feet. “I suggest we begin the journey to Wisconsin immediately.” He says gruffly, putting a cautious hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“I’ll get your F.B.I. badge,” Sam mutters, and gets up. He eyes Cas’ crumpled trench coat and bloodstained clothing critically and sighs. “You’re going to need a suit.”  
\--

The video quality was bad, to say the least. The image is grainy, sepia-toned, but the man in the baseball cap is still discernable as Dean Winchester.

“That John Doe right there is the one you want to keep your eye on.” Sam nods to the Officer’s words, eyes fixated on the screen as the footage comes into focus. Dean stands at the magazine racks, browsing. Shifting, Cas moves closer to the screen. Could Dean really have disappeared from Sam that long on purpose? Without hint of disagreement between the two brothers?

“Son of a bitch.” Sam almost whispers, and Cas can see his hands curling into fists.

“Watch.” The Officer leans forward, pointing a finger at Dean, a paper in hand. “Okay, now, porn guy's just minding his own business.” His finger shifts to another man, the glint of a weapon visible in his hand. “And there's Drew Neely. See the knife?

Sam nods again. The suit Castiel wears is uncomfortable- too small and clearly meant for a man of wider frame. The last time he wore a truly well-fitting suit was at his and Dean’s four year anniversary-

Only that never happened.

Cas turns his focus back to the video just in time to see the missing man attempt to attack Dean. It’s a leftover reflex for him to reach for his grace to try and fly to Dean’s side, but where he reaches for a waterfall, there’s only a trickle.

Nonetheless, he needn’t have worried. Dean grabs the man, swings him into an aisle of some unidentifiable produce, and shoves him to the floor. The footage goes fuzzy and then Dean has a weapon. The First Blade. Castiel recognizes it, even through blurry footage, because he heard tales from the older angels, voices tinted with fear. It springs to Dean’s hand in the blink of an eye and in another second Drew Neely lies dead on the floor of the store.

The Officer doesn’t seem to notice the emotion in Sam’s face, and rewinds the video, pausing it on the frame in which the First Blade appears. “Looks like a cutlass or something,” he hazards, “I don't know what the hell this is. Problem is, we don't know if this guy's a hero or a psychopath.”

Unable to take not knowing, Castiel marches up to the computer and stares at Dean’s figure, frozen on the screen. “Detective?” He hears Sam’s voice as if from a long way away. “Do you mind if we, uh, take another look at this?”

Before the Officer is even out of the room Sam has the tape rewound to the moment where Dean levels his gaze to the camera. “Go frame-by-frame,” Cas suggests, and pulls a chair over so he can sit my Sam.

Sam does as Cas suggests, and the only sound for a moment is the click of the arrow key as Sam flicks through the frames.

“Stop.”

The frame- just the one- is between two virtually identically shots of Dean’s face as he stares at the camera, but it’s different.

Dean’s eyes are black.

_The heat of Hell can damage even the grace of an angel, and it flickers after Cas’ form as he flies through hell. His wings, all three pairs, twist and beat behind him as he weaves through the realm beyond the aid of Heaven._

_Save Dean Winchester._

_His brothers and sister fight demons, push and repel the ever pungent sense of evil that pollutes the seventh circle. Blade at the ready, cutting and slicing the demons that dare cross the path that will bring him to the righteous man, Castiel fights._

_Save Dean Winchester._

_The Righteous Man, made to host Michael and bring the apocalypse to cleanse the Earth, burns in hell. He is swathed in darkness, smouldering and covered with the blood of the souls on his rack. Yet, despite the demonic form he bears and the indistinct weapon in his hand, the Righteous Man’s soul is pure. His soul is a beam of light in the red-tinted darkness._

_Save the Righteous Man._

_It is Castiel who reaches Dean Winchester first. As is expected, he turns on Castiel, rage and hell-given evil on the surface of his very being. In this form, he will not be rescued._

_Castiel’s wings are dark and huge, and they curl around Dean Winchester as he reaches out and takes him from the heat and cold and darkness. The demons are cautious now, fearing that they may end the Righteous Man in their path to kill an angel. They stay back a little, just out of reach, as Castiel flies again. This time he flies up, confident in his victory._

_The Righteous Man is saved._

_Wings sweeping through the shadows, Castiel dares look at the Righteous Man. His body is not yet formed- a task Castiel must care for once they are out of the realm of Hell- but his current form’s eyes stare at him._

_They are the deep, dark colour of a demon's._

The memory shocks Cas, and he flinches almost in synchronization with Sam. Anger flushes Sam’s face, and something seems to clench in Cas’ chest.

“Sam-“

Sam pushes the chair back with a grating sound. His jaw is tight in his anger and he pushes his words out as if they’ve physically assaulted him.

“Sam-“ Castiel begins again, but Sam is out of the room before he can finish, door slamming behind him. About to follow, Cas feels a tug on his grace and hears the subtle flap of wings. Without a thought, he pulls out his angel blade and whirls to face the intruder.

It is Hanael, and her mouth is agape when she sees him. Instantly Castiel knows she sees the dribble of light that is all remains of his grace and he fights the urge to hang his head in shame, for the mockery of a true angel that he has become must disgust her.

“Castiel.”

“Hannah.”

Her eyes flick up and down, assessing his vessel’s condition. “I heard about Metatron,” Cas begins, remembering Sam’s tale of the long months since they parted. “You're a good soldier, Hannah... And one of the best. Metatron certainly could not have been brought to heel without your bravery.”

Hannah ignores this. “Your Grace is failing.” She sounds stunned, fingertips dancing on the leg of her trousers. “How do you still have Grace? I thought all the angels had lost it in the fall.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re dying.” There’s no question in her tone. Hannah can see what the fading Grace will do to Cas. Already he feels weaker, returned to his angelic state yet without- how would Dean say it?- the “juice to keep him running”. The djinn took so much during his year- enough to push him back towards that almost fallen state.

“Heaven is self-governed.” Hannah tells him, a hint of a smile on her face. “But, while most of the angels who fell have returned to Heaven. A few have not. Rogues. Two have killed one of our own for attempting to return them to Heaven.”

Cas’ jaw tightens. “Who were they?” He built a new family here; a better one, perhaps, than he had before. He cannot truly judge these two, for he has killed his own kind: Michael, Raphael, Balthazar, Bartholomew... too many to count.

But to murder one of their own for the sole reason that they tried to return them to Heaven? Incomprehensible.

Guilt flickers when Castiel thinks of Anna. She did not deserve her death. She deserved her freedom, her choice. Choice: the ability to take one’s destiny into one’s own hands. A Winchester invention in the eyes of Heaven: Free Will.

"Come with us. Even without your grace you can give us a leader, Castiel."

"No." Cas is quick in his answer. Power is not for him. It shall never be for Cas, not since he knows how it can corrupt him.

"You're always welcome," She insists, just as Sam appears at the door. Hannah vanishes as soon as the door moves, the wind of her wing-beat still rustling papers on the Officer’s desk. A whisper of her presence lingers, a suggestion of Castiel joining her to find these rogues, of Castiel returning to heaven.

“Coming?” Sam asks, jostling Cas from his thoughts.

He nods, still thinking of Hannah’s words. “I thought we should head out to question the store attendant.”  
\--

The phone the clerk found calls up a familiar British accent, frown evident in his tone when he picks up. It’s obvious he’s unaware that he’s no longer speaking to the demon in his pay when he tells them that they’re supposed to be dead.

Sam responds quickly, though Cas can tell he’s still recovering from the sight of black eyes on his brother. “Nope. Just using a dead man’s phone.”

“Moose. Took you long enough.” He sounds almost bored. “Your brother and I were beginning to wonder if you’d hit another dog, you know?”

“I do not understand-“ Cas starts, brow knitting together.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Castiel, angel of the Dean.” Faintly in the background they can hear the sounds of music and chatter- a bar. “I’m afraid you’re a little late to pull Dean from Hell this time.”

“My brother is dead, Crowley,” Sam spits the words out, anger twisting his mouth. “I know you have some freaking demon parading around in his meatsuit, and trust me, you are gonna pay for that.”

Crowley laughs. “Wings, Moose. I'm afraid you haven't allowed yourself to dream quite big enough here.”  
\--

The pain in his chest is back, and stronger. Cas’ thoughts are disjointed and all return to the same sentence: The only demonized soul inside of Dean is his and his alone.

The silent stream of ‘no’ running through his mind is silenced by the beep of Sam’s phone. The call is over, but Cas’ focus is still on Crowley’s triumph-filled words. Dean’s mind, soul, and body are his own but they belong to a darker Dean. Cas thinks longingly of the Dean who put a ring on his finger and promised to keep it there.

“The Black Spur. North Dakota.” Sam is halfway to the Impala before Cas processes his words and hurries after him.  
\------------------------------

Something clunks in the car’s engine and Sam pulls over. He waves off Cas’ offer of help and unfolds himself as he gets out of the car, walking round the front to pull up the hood. 

What would they find in North Dakota? If Crowley tells the truth, if Dean’s soul has truly become demonic, would a cure even be an option? Cas thinks longingly of the days where he could have taken this journey in under a second, when he would have been able to get to the root of this quickly.

His attention is drawn back to Sam when a stranger walks up to stand beside him, all easy smiles and helpful attitude as he peers into the complex engine. 

Not even the barest twist of Grace is enough to stop the fist connecting with Sam’s head. Sam falls, topples backwards onto the tarmac, and Cas is stumbling out of the car, trying to stop this from happening. The man- short hair, friendly smile- frowns when he sees Cas, but raises his hand again.

“Who are you?” Castiel is not part of this man’s calculations, and he reaches for that last part of Grace, only to find a gun to his head and no Grace to be reached.

“I am Castiel.” He rumbles, wondering if he can reach his blade in time. The man nods, considering.

“Nice to meet you, Castiel,” he says, and then the gun is withdrawn and something collides with the back of Cas’ head, sending him to join Sam on the floor.  
\--

When Cas opens his eyes, his first thought is that this is happening with far too much regularity to be normal- it must be a hazard of travelling with the Winchesters, he guesses. Squirming, he realizes his wrist and ankles are bound to a chair and his head feels as if it is being pounding from the inside.

He also can’t see.

That is incorrect. He sees the textured fabric of burlap- woven and barely see-through. It’s whipped off his head within seconds, and the man grins at him, then at Sam, who sits bound next to him in an old barn.

The man claps his hands together, as if to rid himself of chalk dust or some other power. “Okay. Home, sweet home,” he grins, “Breathe.” Sam sucks in a breath, shifting his hurt arm, and the man nods approvingly. “There you go. You good, partners?”

The shock is gone now, and Cas feels anger bubbling up. “Who are you?” he growls, wriggling his hands minutely to test the bonds- they’re strong, and he couldn’t break them without using up the last of his power.

He hates feeling the lack of power when he truly needs it. Something tugs at his very being, and he focuses on the cord-like trail of energy he can feel thrumming through his veins.

“You’re a hunter?” Sam’s voice breaks his reverie, and Castiel focuses on the figure pacing in front of them.

“Hunting your brother counts, right?” Cole asks over his shoulder. Cas meets Cole’s eyes as he bends down to inspect him. “Who the hell are you?”

“I am an angel of the lord,” Cas says, directing the full force of his gaze into the ‘hunter’s’ eyes. The disbelief there is so obvious that, for a second, he’s back in the lonely barn in Pontiac, Illinois.

_Dean’s scared eyes stare up at him from where he kneels over Bobby’s unconscious form. He does not understand that his friend is merely sleeping._

_“I am an Angel of the Lord,” he says, and Cas remembers how it felt to see the first spark of something when Dean doesn’t recognize the angel that remade him from his twisted, hellish form. The spark was something that was most certainly not angelic in origin but distinctly human. And he knew it was time to bring Dean into his Father’s plans._

_“Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing.” Mistrust colours the human’s eyes, and Cas smiles a wry smile when the obstacle of scepticism arises- Dean is not a believer. “This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.”_

“An angel, huh?” Disbelief taints Cole’s tone too, “Can you prove that, buddy?”

Sam straightens in his chair, catching Cas’ eyes with panic in his own. “I wouldn’t do that,” he interrupts, calling out to their captor. There’s something distinctly military in the way Cole pivots round to face them, mouth twisted in a hard line. Sam presses on, and Cas spies the subtle twisting of his hands that means he’s trying to break free. “You wouldn’t want hunt my brother, that is.”

The hard line of Cole’s mouth becomes a smirk, and Castiel is reminded forcibly of Zachariah’s betrayal and how the same smirk once marred his face as he brought on the Apocalypse.

And then Sam’s phone is in Cole’s hand and he’s dialling. The tinny ringing is the only sound in the barn for a minute, and then the call connects.

“I left you an open tab at the bar,” says the familiar voice of Dean Winchester, and Cas suddenly finds it hard to pull in air, despite the fact that he can still, technically, survive without it.

“Well, hell, I just may take you up on that.”


	3. A Little Broken, A Little New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t imagine Cas waking up and Dean yelling at him for letting the Djinn get the drop on him.
> 
> Don’t imagine neither if them telling Dean what happened.
> 
> Don’t imagine the sadness Sam would see on Cas’s face everyday from then on and the pain when Dean goes home with random women.
> 
> Don't imagine him fighting to cure Dean, fuelled by that sadness and love.

When Dean says he doesn’t care, when he tells Cole that, if he likes, he can kill Sam, it hurts. And when Dean says that Cole can kill his brother, can kill Cas, Cas breaks inside; reaches inside himself. Deep, deep inside him, where the first of his wings had grown, is the puddle that was once his grace. Rage and sorrow tug at him, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s submerging himself into that raw energy and hurling himself away from Sam, from Cole, from Dean in that far off bar.

He materialises outside a gas ‘n’ sip. It’s like someone has taken out the lungs he’s grown to depend on, and he can’t seem to get in any air. Gasping, he falls over, vaguely aware that his- once Jimmy’s, once the Leviathans’- body is spasming. He closes his eyes and everything disappears: mind, sense, grace.

A crash startles the silence, and Castiel’s eyes fly open. The sky, dark and cloudy mere moments ago, is bright with sunlight. Squinting against the light, he looks around and, suddenly, his sister Hannah flies through the door of the store. Someone else follows her, clutching an angel blade. Hannah spots him as she sits up, holding a hand to her bleeding face and swollen eye.

“Castiel?” She sounds near disbelieving, her voice muffled and choked by blood dripping from her nose. The blonde stalks towards her, tall in frame, moving with angelic confidence. “Adina-” Hannah begins, but then Adina is raising her angel blade, metal glinting.

Once, Cas helped Gabriel forge an angel blade. It was fortified in the fires of one of the last true dragons, the metal made of pure grace and the hardened feathers of the archangels. He has seen it in the hands of many, aimed at many- at Dean, once. In Dean’s heart, once.

Like Dean, Hannah does not fight Adina now. He has already failed his brothers and sisters too many times, so Castiel struggles to his feet, a bolt of pain in his chest nearly grounding him again, and staggers over. “Adina,” he mumbles. She doesn’t notice him, hisses out quiet words to Hannah. He tries again, louder. “Adina stop.”

Cas reaches up and wraps his fingers round Adina’s, around the hand that holds the angel blade. She whips her head round, and meets his gaze. Her eyes are bloodshot, and there are tear tracks down her pale cheeks. “Castiel,” she breathes, sounding dazed. Adina turns fully, lowering the blade a little, and then rage settles onto her features like a veil coming down to cover the sadness. “She killed Daniel,” she bites out, wrenching her hand from Cas’ grip, “help me right this.”

“This won’t make it better, Adina,” Cas says sadly, and he knows it won’t. It won’t. This is not how the universe works; it’s not how his Father wanted it to finish. Cas knows angel controlling angel only ends in hurt- knows how it ended once in pain and the body of Dean Winchester in the arms of the seraph who loved him. “It’s not what you are-”

Adina screams and pushes him, angel blade slicing down his side as she throws him to the floor. Automatically, Cas reaches for his grace, but his reserve is empty, and even reaching for it hurts. The slice down his side is leaking blood. The pain is so human- pain caused by the loss of the last of his grace, leaving him so rapidly it might as well be seeping out beside the red liquid.

Something in him breaks and Cas is gone again, floating into unconsciousness. Through the fog he wonders how he lost his grace so quickly, and, as the world fades out, he gets a last impression of a black suit and elegant tie standing over him. “Hey Champ.”  
\--

Adina’s grace feels foreign in him, ill fitting like Jimmy’s skin had when he had first used him for a vessel. The grace recoils from his touch, easily spooked and still hurt with the scrapes created by the fall. Cas can imagine only too well what it would have been like to fall, to streak from the sky with no control, knowing only that your wings are tearing and crippling and failing.

The return of angel radio, slightly distorted through another angel’s energy, is reassuring. Static. He feels longing, distinct and clear; directed at him. It’s followed by a prayer, lightning fast- _help_. Cas starts, straightening and preparing for flight. _Cas- it’s Sam. Dean’s loose, Dean’s a demon, and he’s loose in the bunker. Cas help, help, Cas-_

Castiel’s eyes fly open, and he prepares to reach for this new grace. He reaches because it’s his job to save the Winchesters- to save Dean. And then he catches sight of a figure beside Hannah, who sits on the ground, nursing her wounds and healing herself. Crowley, King of Hell, is crouching at her side.

As Cas stares, Crowley turns and sees him. “You owe me,” Crowley warns.

Castiel returns Crowley's gaze coldly, wondering if the King of Hell realizes how easily a seraph could smite him- and Cas would have, were it not for the sense of fairness endowed to him by the Winchesters. Instead, he gives the demon a curt nod and spreads his patched wings to fly to Sam and Dean.

This time, when he flies, it is easier. Adina preferred to soar, gazing down on perfectly moulded valleys and sculpted mountain tops, and Cas can feel that longing in her grace. But now is not the time. His friends need him.

When Lebanon comes into sight, Cas hesitates. Last time he truly saw Dean- well, it would not do to regret and remember now. But it's all he can do, so he steels himself and dives down.

The first thing he notices is Dean's soul: it is marred by the demon he has become, glowing like an ember. It is more twisted than the Dean he pulled from hell, horns curling from his new form. Damaged and battered yet pure, Sam's soul shines beside it, quivering in pain.

Cas senses the danger Sam is in before either soul below so much as shifts, and he all but dive-bombs the bunker. Spreading his wings in the instant that he passes through the ground and ceiling, he materialises right behind Dean and lunges forward.

It’s almost a hug, positioning not unlike how he rested in Dean’s embrace as they watched Iron Man, except this time Dean struggles against him, a feral roar ripping through his throat. Fighting to keep him in place, Castiel feels his eyes light up with an ethereal blue that’s just a little different to the colour of his own grace, and he growls right back. “It’s over.”

Dean still strains to get away from him, so Cas moves his arms a little tighter round Dean, hand settling with a sudden spark on the very spot that used to mark his ascent from hell. “It’s over, Dean”.  
\--

“Where were you, Cas?”

Hand on the wood of Dean’s bedroom doorway, Cas freezes. He’d thought that, given all that had transpired in his absence, as well as all that had exploded into action in the last 24 hours, Dean might not inquire into this. Clearly he was mistaken.

He turns round. “I encountered a djinn,” he confesses.

Initially, he can tell Dean doesn’t understand what that means. Dean assumes he found a djinn and dispatched it. But then it dawns on him. “How long?” he asks, but it sounds more like a demand than a question.

“Sam estimates close to a year and a half.”

The Winchester Gospels state that Dean, a bare year after he and Sam took up the search for their father, had his own meeting with a djinn. Dean understands-

“Son of a bitch, Cas!” Dean’s voice rises with the words. “How could you let a djinn get the jump on you?”

Cas flinches at the harsh tone, and Dean backs down.

“Just,” Dean seems to search for the words, “Just don’t let it happen again, Cas?” Eager to redirect anything that could aggravate the mark, Cas nods, and, because Dean is still healing, Castiel leaves him in his bedroom and makes his way uncertainly back to the kitchen.

Leaning against the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, is Sam, who waves to him as he enters. “How is he?” Sam asks, brow creasing.

“He will be alright,” Cas says, because ‘alright’ is all he can promise when the Mark of Cain still adorns Dean’s arm like a malicious tattoo. The same ‘alright’ cannot be said for Sam, with six layers of grey and blue bags under his eyes, an arm in a sling, and the look of someone running only on caffeine and relief. “I believe you ought to be more worried about yourself.”

Sam nods, just a little, and reaches out, a hand gentle on Cas’ shoulder. “Hang around a little, Cas?” he requests, and he looks so desperate that Cas agrees without thinking: a quiet “yes” slipping from his lips.

“Thanks.”  
\--

Cas still doesn’t sleep. Sam and Dean bid him goodnight and trail out, Sam watching Dean like he thinks his brother will fall over and break.

The halls of the bunker are silent apart from Cas’ breaths. He keeps a hand on the wall of the bunker, although he’s not entirely sure why. Perhaps it’s to remind himself that it’s real, perhaps to make sure he has something to hold onto.

He avoids the dungeon.

In the early hours of the morning, he hears something. It’s a low gasp, a drawn-in breath that he instinctively recognizes as Dean’s. It’s followed by a pained “Sammy- no-”, and by that point Cas is already moving, running down the hallways he mapped out in the hours before midnight.

And then Dean calls out- “Cas!”- and Cas pushes at Adina’s grace and flies the last metres through the door and to Dean’s side.

He’s sleeping, but not peacefully. His hands clutch at the sheets and he writhes, brows drawn together in terror.

Cas stares down at him, doing his best to ignore the swelling feeling of love in him at the sight of the Righteous Man, the accompanying worry at the fear on Dean’s face. His soul, free of the demon he was, flashes bright and shudders with the images in his dreams. Carefully, Cas sits on the bed beside Dean. The bed sinks, just a little, and Cas cups Dean’s face, trying to soothe him.

At Cas’ touch, Dean’s eyes fly open, and Cas could have sworn that, for the barest second, they were black again. He slams upright, hand grabbing Cas’ arm, and breathes in so quickly it sounds like a strangled whistle.

“Shhh, Dean.” Cas pushes down his terror at the inky black flicker and focuses on helping. Twisting webs of grace blanket the darkness he can feel in Dean’s soul, holding it at bay, preparing to draw them out. “It’s okay, Dean,” he promises, closing his eyes as instants of Dean’s dreams throw themselves against him.

It’s a series of deaths- Sam, Cas, Charlie, Kevin, even Dean’s parents and Bobby, Ellen, and Jo. And each of them dies the same way: Dean, mark pulsing, glowing red, the first blade in his hand as he guts them and hacks until the flesh is no longer recognizable.

They all clutch at him and plead as they choke on their blood, and as they die, Cas sees the reflection of demonic eyes in theirs.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is hoarse, tone confused. “Cas?” His fingernails leave little crescents marks in Cas’ arms when he pulls away, harsh red and beaded with blood.

“You were having nightmares,” Cas tells him levelly, and reaches over to turn on the lamp. Dean’s hand catches his wrist before he can do so, and Cas finds himself tauntingly close to Dean’s face, breathing in each other’s breaths.

“I’m fine,” Dean insists, although the catch to his words disagrees. “Don’t tell Sammy,” he begs, fingers tightening their grip on him for an instant.

Despite himself, Cas nods, and Dean lets go. “Dean-”

“This never happened.” 

More to himself than to Dean, Cas nods, and leaves the room. He collapses against the wall outside though, and wishes he could crawl in beside Dean and help him fall asleep. Hopefully his grace- Adina’s grace- will be enough to soothe Dean for the night.

Soon after, Cas resumes his wandering.  
\--

It’s not a singular event- almost every night finds Cas soothing Dean’s dreams, quieting the protests of a Dean who barely meets his eyes, and then returning to walk the hallways until the sun rises.

One night Cas does manage to fall asleep, curling up under clean yet musty sheets.

_The night sky is star-filled over the Bed and Breakfast. Cas is sitting on the porch, waiting for Dean to join him with blankets and a snack- probably just hot chocolate. Orion is clear in the dark, and Cas cranes back his head to look for the meteors they saw streaking above before._

_Dean walks out of the house, closing the door softly behind him. As he goes to sit by Cas, he pauses and drapes a blanket carefully over Cas’ shoulders, tucking it round his shoulders with a soft hand, grazing it along Cas’ shoulders lightly enough to make him shiver._

_But Dean doesn’t sit down beside Cas. He walks off the porch and starts heading into the woods. “Dean?” Cas calls after him, worried. “Dean, where are you going?”_

_He stands to go after him, blanket slipping off his shoulders and piling on the deck. The night echoes but no response comes from Dean. Cas leaps off the porch, heart in his throat, and races into the forest._

_Footsteps crunch the frosty grass ahead, and Cas races after the sound. Eventually, though, they stop. Cas, still running, skids to a stop in a clearing. For a moment, he doesn’t see Dean. He spins round, trying to spot anything that might tell him where Dean has gone._

_And then he trips._

_Dean lies on the floor. Were it not for the angel blade protruding from his chest, and the emptiness in his eyes, Cas would have thought he was stargazing. Looking down at his own hands, which clutch Dean’s in half-mad desperation, Cas notices the blood on his hands and all the breath dissipates from him._

_He did this._

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep when he jolts awake, Dean’s dying pleas ringing in his head. Automatically he rolls over, reaching out to find Dean; to be pulled into his arms and held until the nightmare fades. 

That side of the mattress is empty and cold. No indent suggests another body ever lay there, and Cas’ hand stretches across it. Something in his brain shuts down, his mind disagreeing with the evidence before him.

Where is Dean? Cas’ breathing comes hard and fast, ripping out of his lungs and slicing his throat. His heartbeats are jagged and it hurts- oh it hurts. As Cas’ fingers grapple in the sheets, trying to hold onto what is real, and what is still part of the dream.

He doesn’t have Dean any more. Dean lies along the corridor in his own bed, having his own nightmares, and pushing Cas away whenever he tries to comfort him. In this universe- in reality- it has never been CasandDean.

At points it’s like Cas isn’t even corporeal at all. Almost like he is an insubstantial ghost, not quite able to manifest yet and change anything. Neither book after dusty book nor research done under bare bulbs turn up any leads on the Mark.

Even after Sam scrolls through pages and pages of search results on a journey to Washington, there’s no cure in sight.

As a last resort Cas files away the possibility of talking to Metatron. Surely an angel, the Scribe of God himself, who could take down the last-heard words of his Father, could have written a cure for the first curse of man.  
\--

At Dean’s request, after another week of soothed nightmares and being pushed away, Sam and Cas stand by the door to the bunker’s garage. They slide into the Impala, followed quickly by Dean, almost back to normal in his plaid.

In fact, he would have been considered entirely better if it weren’t for his obvious lack of sleep and for the dark red mark on his arm. For all Sam’s hopes of a hunt getting Dean back into the saddle, their hunt with Kate in Washington seemed to only have served to aid his deterioration.

“Where are we going?” Sam asks, reaching to turn down the volume on the AC/DC that blasts through the speakers when the engine turns on. Dean bats his hand away, grinning with infectious glee.

“A night on the town, Sammy.”

Cas meets Sam’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, eyebrows drawn together. Sam’s brow knits together with worry too, but he nods a little, and Cas knows not to disable Dean’s ‘Baby’ to prevent this excursion.  
\--

There is a white band of skin around the cylinder of one of Cas’ fingers, ever so subtle. Sentiment, pure and nostalgic, lead him to ever so softly change the skin of his vessel- he needs some evidence that, somewhere, he and Dean were happy. Perhaps they still are.

\--

Sam slides a beer across the table and slides into the chair opposite. The amber liquid tastes of molecules and a sharper aftertaste that is not entirely unpleasant; somehow it reminds Cas of his time as a human. He takes a sip and scans the bar for Dean.

There- he’s in his green shirt with the sleeves rolled up, smiling a charming smile and leaning in an easy stance at the bar. Although the room is loud, Cas can hear him talking to the statuesque redhead at his side: flirting.

_“Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?” Dean smirks one afternoon when he catches Cas poised, yet again, on the balcony edge, arms spread to catch the air currents. He aches to fly- to soar and dive and glide._

_“Yes,” he says earnestly, arms falling to his side as he turns to face Dean. “It was considerably painful.”_

_And Dean throws his head back and laughs. Cas enjoys watching Dean laugh, but it’s even better when Dean pulls him away from the edge of the decking and into his arms._

_“You’re my angel, Cas,” he teases, and Cas grips Dean’s shoulder blades, missing the wings that used to sprout from those spots on his back._

“Cas?”

The bar rumbles with quiet, contented chatter. The occasional victorious yells from the pool tables and drink claims called to the bartender are the only exceptions, so Sam's voice is enough to pull Cas from the memory of that other Dean.

Sam pushes a beer at Cas, liquid sloshing a little in the tall glass. Sam’s eyes follow Cas' gaze over to Dean and his new friend. They watch together as Dean slips and arm around her waist, laughing, and nods at the door. She winks at him, slipping a hand over his.

And then they're gone.

"They’d better not have gone back to the bunker," Sam grumbles. His fingers, tapping out a pattern on the chilled surface of his pint, freeze. “Sorry, Cas.”

“It’s okay.” His grip on his beer tightens, and he can’t quite bring himself to meet Sam’s eyes when he speaks. Still, he is an angel, and time can endure long enough for him to recover some day.

“You should tell him, you know.” And doesn’t Cas know he should. But then, so does Sam, since he sat beside them and watched Iron Man 3, and doubtless saw the ring placed firmly on Cas’ finger.

“I do not wish to trouble Dean further,” Cas insists, addressing the dark, wooden table in front of him. “He has enough to deal with without me burdening him.”

“Cas.” There’s disapproval and a suppressed urgency in Sam’s voice now, so Cas reluctantly lifts his head enough to meet the eyes leveled at him. “Dean needs you.”

“What Dean needs is a cure.”

Sam doesn’t argue with that.  
\--

Shirt ruffled, hair obviously hand-combed, Dean stumbles back into the bunker next morning. There's an air of lazy contentment about him, though his eyes often shift to meet Cas'- only for brief seconds, though, not enough for him to understand the emotion there.

The words between Sam and Cas go unspoken. Sam, from beside a soaring pile of Men of Letters records, gives him silent permission to leave. So when Dean turns and, through a mouthful of some sort of donut-croissant fusion, asks how Cas’ evening was, Cas doesn’t hear him. Cas, instead, spreads foreign wings and soars.

Gabriel taught him, once, to slow his flight once in a while and let the air caress his face, to fly looking at the stars and beyond the galaxies and simply not see Heaven for once

It was a reminder to see that bit of humanity interwoven into the stories of the constellations; the stories of Andromeda and Orion, of Sirius and Perseus; a way of seeing that humanity is visible even in those far-off stars, just like that little bit of humanity is in him from Dean.

It takes only the barest twist of feathers to send Cas soaring to Heaven.  
\--

Metatron’s cell is bare and untouched, void of personality and any sense of uniquity as a soldier of Heaven is supposed to be. Legs crossed, head bowed, he sits facing the wall when Castiel enters.

“Metatron.”

A smile splits the calm face into something almost crazed, an insanity visible through those human eyes- what is it that mankind says? The eyes are a window to the soul? Metatron’s are mad and empty.

“Castiel.” Metatron returns as he slips off the pallet and approaches the bars.

“What do you know about the Mark of Cain?”

At this, Metatron cocks his head, contemplating Castiel through the bars of his cell. Hannah, waiting at the door, watches in stony, wary silence. “He’s finally snapped, then?” Metatron says. Cas has to lean in closer to hear the words, mumbles in frenzied glee. “He’s gone full Demon? Or rather,” Metatron chuckles, “ _Deanmon_.”

In an instant Castiel’s hand is through the bars and lifting the Scribe into the air by the lapels of his grubby jacket. “Dean is not a demon,” Cas growls, paying no mind to Hannah’s attempts to get him to set the other angel down, “but if you don’t tell me how to rid him of the mark, you’ll wish I’d left you at his mercy when he was.”

Metatron has the audacity to chuckle at that; he leans forward and braces himself against the bars, looking down at Cas. “No,” he grins. “I think I’ll watch you fail.”

Clear as a bell, the call to arms rings across angel radio. Behind him, out of the corner of his eyes, Cas sees Hannah straighten and turn to leave. “Be careful, Castiel,” she calls to him as the door swings closed behind her.

The door softly thumps closed, and Cas turns his attention back to Metatron. He pulls his blade from inside his trench coat. "I will not hesitate to obliterate you, Metatron," he growls.

Infuriatingly, Metatron still grins. "Do tell me, Castiel, is it true that a djinn held you captive?"

Eyes narrowing, Cas shifts the point of his blade so it rests against Metatron's Adam's apple. "What do you care?"

"Oh Castiel," Metatron is cocky enough to snort, "did those Winchesters of yours teach you nothing?"

Cas sets Metatron down, keeping one hand firmly on his jacket and the blade firmly  
in place at his throat. "What are you saying?"

"If I tell you how to cure Winchester number one," Metatron muses, infuriatingly at ease with the closeness of the blade's point to his throat, "will you let me out?"

"No."

"Then we have a problem." Metatron spreads his hands, palms up. "What a shame."

"What if it were on pain of death?" Cas asks, pressing the blade a little. Metatron stills, breathing shallowly. But his grin doesn't fade, for he knows as well as Castiel that he cannot kill Metatron here without facing divine retribution.

Instead, he reaches quickly for the sigil cuffs that hang on the wall, and the key that dangles beside them. As fast as he can, he cuffs Metatron to the bars and unlocks the cell door. It takes an extra twist of grace to get him in, as he is not one of the guards, but he manages. 

Cas slips inside the cell and closes the door again, leaving Metatron cuffed. Carefully, he lifts the blade again so it levels at Metatron’s throat, then, from his coat, retrieves a vial. “I can do exactly what you did to countless angels- to their grace- to you.”

"Is that really necessary?" Metatron's voice is high and grating, and Castiel ignores it as best as he can. He holds the blade at his side, tense enough to remain a warning. 

"How do I remove the mark from Dean?"

When Metatron remains silent, Castiel swings, his fist connecting solidly with Metatron's nose. He leans forward and all but spits the question into Metatron's face. "How do I remove the Mark Of Cain?"

Blood trickles down Metatron's face as he smiles. "You can't, Castiel," he laughs. "There is no cure."

Although he doesn't visibly relent, Cas worries. For, if there is no cure, he may lose Dean for the third time.

Back when he was in the graces of Heaven, winged and glorious, a seraph in the making, he had no such sorrows. He marvels sometimes at how far he has come at Dean's side, and how far he has fallen from the warrior of God he once was. It is because Dean has saved him, again and again.

And he has repaid Dean by letting him die, leaving him, and, now, not even being able to cure him.

Perhaps, for he knows Adina's grace will not last long, the solution is to find his own grace.

He pivots, turning from white brick wall to smug angel. "Metatron," he attempts to sound casual, though he knows that as the Scribe of God, Metatron is too astute to be fooled, "Do you know what became of my grace? Did you use it to close the gates of Heaven?"

Metatron raises his head, glaring past a broken, unhealed nose and a black eye. "I suggest you ask your friendly neighborhood djinn about that," he pauses and spits, then turns back, grinning with bloodstained teeth. "He's the expert."

Before Cas can truly contemplate this new piece of information, Hannah enters again. She takes one look at Metatron and immediately gestures for Cas to leave the cell. 

“Castiel,” she admonishes in a low voice, “You cannot just come up to Heaven, throw the Scribe around, and then leave again.”

“My apologies.”

Hannah just shakes her head, so Cas leaves, not looking at Metatron as he exits the room.  
\--  
Cas lands in the bunker, just outside the archive room behind which the dungeons sits. Before he can so much as tuck away his wings, the familiar distant bang of the bunker door opening echoes through the room. With his angelic hearing, he can make out the voices of both Winchesters. Cas folds his wings and heads along the corridor, stepping out into the kitchen just in time to hear Dean lock the main door and berate Sam about something called 'Destiel'.

In the kitchen, the coffee machine rumbles to life. Cas heads over, already mentally trying to remember the name of the small town he'd encountered the djinn in. He believes it was Omaha, but he'd have to ask Sam to be sure.

Both Winchesters were already drinking their coffee by the time Cas slides into the chair beside Dean. Automatically, he shuffles the chair a little closer so he can hold Dean's hand, only to realize that would be unlikely to go over well.

He clears his throat. "Sam, did you kill the djinn that captured me?"

At the question, Sam's elbow slips on the edge of the table and he slops coffee over himself. His gaze flickers across the table as he mops it up, never quite looking up far enough to meet Cas' eyes. "I was more focused on getting you out of there, Cas," he mumbles guiltily.

Absentmindedly, Cas nods. He stands up, eyes fixated on the map of America at Dean's elbow. "I will finish this," he informs Sam without resentment. His hand is half-way to Dean's before he jerks it back, aware that he's not allowed to do that anymore. "I will return shortly," he tells them awkwardly, and then he is gone.  
\--

Sparse patches of grass grow up between the cracked asphalt on the ground in front of the warehouse. In daylight, it is nowhere near the shadowed building Castiel lost himself in for what seemed like a year.

Each step crunches loudly as Cas heads towards the door. It is possible, of course, that the djinn has moved on, and he finds himself already tracking potential places it may have gone.

The door creaks far more loudly than it once did, and Cas finds himself swallowing. Fear crawls down his throat as if he feels fear like a human does. Perhaps it would be better if he turned back.

As he did last time, Cas carries a blade: silver dipped in lamb's blood. It is almost the only thing that is the same. The daylight streaks through a broken-glass window above instead of moonlight. Daylight casts a much more favourable view of the warehouse, and Castiel navigates it far better than he did in his last visit.

Curiously enough, when Cas finally reaches the area he was held in, there are still clear signs that the djinn is there. It hasn't moved on- that much is evident in the two people strung up.

Creeping silently closer, Cas sees that one figure is male. He is perhaps fifty years old, with greying hair and clear laughter lines etched around his eyes and mouth. The other is a teenaged girl, with blonde hair and ripped jeans. Cas has seen her before as he dreamed of a perfect life. But then, he knew her before that- Jimmy knew her before him.

It's Claire.

But it's not the Claire that Jimmy would have known. This is the haunted, bedraggled Claire who stared at Cas across the crowded dining room of the B&B and blamed him for all that happened to her.

She was right to blame him.

Knife held at the ready, Cas begins to free Claire and the older man. The djinn could return at any minute, and he refuses to be surprised again. He doesn’t think he could leave that Dean again.

He cuts down Claire first, removing the IV and stumbling when she collapses into his arms. She's unconscious, and so is the man when Cas frees him.

The djinn still hasn't returned.

But Cas needs his grace, so he drags both of them to the side. Once they're out of the way; hidden to a point, Cas begins the search.

Countless shelves tower above him, teetering dangerously. Some shelves are still haunted by the occasional dusty box. There is, however, no sign of his grace.

Cas can feel it, though. It hums beneath his feet and courses through him.

Beneath his feet.

Cas stamps on the wooden floor and feels it echo. Instantly, he's on his knees, stirring up the dust in an effort to find the entrance to the cellar that he knows lies underneath the rotting boards.

The ring to open the trapdoor is almost under a metal post, and comes up with a quiet creak. In the filtered sunlight, he sees the rungs of a ladder. With a sigh, Cas pulls the knife out from where he'd stored it in his coat, and begins the descent.

The sunlight isn't enough to permeate the initial darkness of the basement. There are more shelves, rickety and falling apart, and bottles and bottles of shining energy.

As demons and angels both were tantamount to do, djinn often preserved the energy- the very life- they stole from their victims for later consumption. Those energies light up their bottles brighter than new stars their solar systems, and bathe the room with a blue-white glow.

Despite the stacks upon stacks of bottles, Cas spots his grace immediately. Between the slim bottles of two human energies sits his grace, spiraling and undulating, fighting to be free. Cas makes a beeline for it.

Which is, of course, exactly when the djinn chooses to attack.

It leaps out of the shadows, tattoos glowing, and attempts to tackle Cas to the floor. Yet Cas is faster than it expects, and throws it right back, smashing through a towering pile of energies and breaking every last bottle.

Grace or finishing the djinn? Cas opts for the latter, and plunges the knife- blood long since dried into its neck. It gurgles. The blue tattoos sputter out.

The djinn is dead.

Cas isn't entirely sure why, but he doesn't immediately uncork the bottle. Instead he watches the blue of it through the bright green glass, and then slips it into an inner pocket.

Carefully, he then retrieves the knife, now soaked in djinn blood as well as lambs’, wipes it on the djinn's clothing and ascends again.

But first he shoves over the endless shelves of human souls. If their owners still live, those energies- that peculiar spark that makes humans unique- will return to them.

Luckily, Cas realises, the djinn has not yet consumed Claire's energy. In fact, by the time Cas returns, her eyelids are fluttering. The same cannot be said for the older man, so Cas closes his eyes and leaves him. Carefully, he lifts Claire over his shoulder and walks out.

Back in the sunshine, he lowers her to the ground. Claire shifts and groans, but Cas knows she'll be alright. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the small bottle: it's his turn to have something returned to him.

And then a woman with curling red hair and a smirk on her narrow face is standing before him. Red hair falls in curls round her face, which is all knowing eyes and sharp cheekbones.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The woman lilts her way through the words, almost singing them. Her voice is clear, accent thoroughly Scottish, and her tone smug.

Cas freezes and contemplates her, taking in the dark, long dress, her painted lips, and the clear remnants of magic on her person. His eyes narrow. He does not trust her.

She saunters closer, smirk growing more pronounced with each step. And then, almost carelessly, she continues: "Not if you want pretty boy Winchester to have any chance of losing that Mark of his."

One eyebrow arches up on her pale face. A challenge.

"I do not understand." His grace hums beside Jimmy's heart, though Jimmy himself is long gone. Why should he not have his grace again?

She tuts. "Dear me- did your Daddy not teach you anything about your grace?" She pauses and chuckles- a trill of laughter. "Oh silly me- of course he didn't. Too busy working on the humans."

Castiel lets the jibe slide, still focusing on her earlier words. She was suggesting, he believes, that the cure for the Mark of Cain lay in his grace. But why his? Perhaps because of the profound bond he and Dean share, he reasons, but the Mark is old. The Mark of Cain predates any kind of profound bond, so surely his grace is not the answer.

But she told him not to 'angel up', as Dean would say. Did that mean his grace would be able to cure Dean only in its purest form? Or while Cas was in his true form?

The woman knows too much to be a hunter, and her eyes tell of someone far, far older.

"Are you suggesting my grace could remove the mark from Dean?" His fingers unconsciously tighten around the bottle holding his grace.

"My, you are slow.” She shakes her head as if in despair. The eyebrow arches again, and her gaze drops. "Your grace is certainly part of the solution."

Something in her stance tells Cas all he needs to know. He returns his grace to his pocket. The silence is pointed, and asking for the other ingredients would have no results. That much he knows. "What do you require in return for the rest of this 'solution'?" He asks warily.

Almost imperceptibly, she straightens. "Well," her tone is all business, taunting edge disappearing, "'My son, Crowley-"

"Your son?" The woman before him is not nearly old enough to be Crowley's mother- that much Cas can tell even with his skewed perceptions of human age.

"Yes- I'm his mother." She must see his confused expression, for she sighs. "My name is Rowena. I'm a witch and Crowley's mother- can we move on?"

Cas barely has time to nod before she's continuing.

"Now that's settled," she smiles, "my price is this: I want you to kill my son."

For a moment, Cas hesitates. Crowley crossed the line from enemy quite some time ago, and to kill him seems... Unfair. But Cas reminds himself that Dean comes first.

"Perhaps you want me to explain why I want you to kill my son?" Rowena meets his eyes, and her lips curl at the hardness she must see there.

"No, I don't think that will be necessary," Cas interrupts, maybe a little harshly than he intended to.

"Do we have a deal then?" Rowena leans into his personal space, a long-nailed hand lifted to shake his.

Claire chooses this moment to waken fully. She stretches her arms and shakes her head, as if to clear it of water. Then, however, Cas and Rowena seem to register in her field of vision, and Claire jumps to her feet. Clearly still dizzy, she stumbles right into Cas.

Automatically he steadies her. He admits even to himself that he feels responsible for Claire, although now more of a teenager than a child. After all, he took away her father- twice.

"Dad?" She whispers, voice breaking the edge of a sob. She looks every inch the broken-hearted little girl Jimmy left behind.

A moment later her featured harden as her eyes truly take Cas in. "Of course not," she continues, tone abruptly bitter. "Castiel."

"Well," Rowena's voice breaks the silence between Cas and Claire after a minute. "I'll give you a day or two to think about it, shall I?"

Cas nods, gaze still fixed on Claire. He hears the click of Rowena's heels but, when he looks up again, she's gone.

"Claire-" he begins, although he has no idea what to say; how to apologize for the unspeakable hurt he has caused her. Sam and Dean are not the only ones able to speak on the topic of absent fathers.

She looks away, to the building they've just left. "Thanks," the word is forced, that much Cas can tell, "for whatever that was."

He's about to open his mouth to explain, but she beats him to it. "Goodbye, Castiel."

Somehow he manages to catch her elbow before she can run away.

"Claire, it's not safe."

At that, she spins back around, eyes flaring with hate, mouth a thin line. "It's not been safe since you took my Dad, Castiel." The words are spat cruelly. Cas accepts them for the truth that they are.

Claire steps closer, pushing tangled blonde hair out of her face. "Is my dad still…?" The question goes unfinished, but Cas knows what she's trying to ask.

Wishing he could tell her otherwise, Cas shakes his head. "Your father is in Heaven now." Perhaps this will provide some comfort, he hopes. Instead, Claire seems to deflate.

"Why are you here, then?" In an instant, her walls are up.

What he should do about Claire is, indeed, a problem. For one, Cas is unsure if Adina's grace will be able to bear the weight of a second in flight, and if Rowena spoke the truth, he cannot use his own.

Nonetheless, the bunker seems to be the best option.

"I am going to take you to the Winchesters," he tells her, grip tightening on her elbow so her flight may have a chance at stability.

Evidently, Claire does not find this course of action agreeable. She rips her arms away and steps back. "No."

Cas sighs. He does not have time to handle Claire's teenage disagreements. So, despite the further damage he knows it will do to her opinion of him, Cas stretches out two fingers and touches her forehead.

He barely has time to catch her before she slumps, unconscious once more.  
\--

The moment Cas enters the eighth sphere, he knows this is a mistake. Adina's grace is acting as a band-aid to his well-being. It is a medicine to temporarily help him back into his feet.

Two person flight is like ripping off the band-aid before the blood has stopped. Before they're even halfway to Lebanon he's exhausted. Every beat of his wings seems to take them a shorter distance than the ones before it.

His grip on Claire feels like it's slipping.

They careen ever closer to the ground. In a fit of desperation, he reaches out to Claire's soul, intending to try and protect her.

Instead he finds the barest sliver of his grace. He's so surprised his wings stutter, and they nearly crash again. He used Claire as a vessel once, a guilt that still plagues him (it's like being chained to a comet, Dean told him Jimmy had said). As a result a little of his grace hovers at the edge of her soul.

As best as he can, Castiel separates the grace from her soul. In flight, the delicate task is near impossible. Claire may never recover from the slight rips to her soul, but it is better than death by crash, Cas reasons.

Still, somehow he manages to siphon off that twist of grace. He patches some of the whole that widens behind Adina's grace with it. And then, for a second, his wings are whole. He gives a mighty flap and they are soaring towards the bunker. Soaring with no way of stopping, he realises.

They crash into the forest outside of the bunker. Cas' wings, still as sharp as a warrior of heavens’ should be, cut down two trees before he manages to stow them away. Their path churns up earth and leaves, carving a trench into the ground. Cas shields Claire as much as possible- he owes that and so much more to Jimmy.

Fragile human skin rips as they tumble over rocks and exposed wood. Cas can feel his grace- the remnants of Adina's grace and his own- mending him. He tries to stop it, but every cut it heals opens a new wound in the sparsely spread grace.

An alarm must have gone off in the bunker, because Sam and Dean come running only moments after the crash. He hears Dean's footsteps, running towards him, and a worried "Cas?" He attempts to reassure Dean, reaching a grazed hand up to take Dean's.

Strangely enough, Dean lets him take his hand. In fact, Dean squeezes his hand and runs his other over Cas' sides and arms, checking for wounds.

And then Sam approaches and Dean abruptly let's go. "Is that Claire?" Sam's eyebrows are drawn together, hand half out to help Cas up.

Dean's head whips back and forth between Cas and Claire. A moment later, his jaw drops. "Wait- Claire Novak? Like, Jimmy's daughter, Claire Novak?"

"Yes," Cas brushes the leaves out of Claire's hair and off his coat. He straightens. "Will you help me get her inside?"  
\--

It turns out Dean had made up a room for Cas long ago. There are sheets on the bed and his old trench coat hangs repaired in the closet. To him, it looks like a sanctuary. A sanctuary like the eternal Tuesday afternoon of an autistic man once was. This one, though, is entirely his own.

 _A sanctuary like that white-walled bedroom in a B &B in Vermont_, his subconscious adds quietly. He ignores it.

They set Claire down on the bed. It has a plaid comforter, Cas notes. Dean fusses, giving her extra pillows and insisting they remove her jacket. He promises he'll cook something for her to eat when she wakes up.

Dean would have made an excellent father, Cas catches himself thinking, and stubbornly redirects himself to reality. It doesn't help that Claire's hair is the same blonde as Chloe's.

Conscious of his tattered coat and slacks, Cas turns to Sam. "Do you have any clothes I could borrow?" He asks nervously, voice low so they don't disturb Claire.

Incredulously, Sam laughs. "My clothes would be too big on you, Cas- why don't you ask Dean?"  
\--

"Dean- can I borrow some of your clothes?"

Dean swallows, pausing halfway through forcing another pillow into its case for Claire. "Sure, Cas."

He leads Cas across the hallway to his room. It has a distinctly lived-in feel, as obviously Dean’s as the interior of the Impala.

"Pick whatever you like." Dean waves an arm towards the closet.

He leaves before Cas can thank him.  
\--

When Cas rejoins the Winchesters in the kitchen, he's wearing Dean's clothes. A pair of his slightly-ripped jeans are coupled with a faded AC/DC shirt. Dean- his Dean- used to play their songs as he washed the dishes, and, despite his groans, Cas had always secretly loved it.

He catches the edge of their conversation as he enters. "...can't ask Cas to do that for us, Dean. Heaven is on shaky ground as it is." It's Sam speaking, and he cuts off abruptly as he spots Cas in the doorway.

The moment Dean's gaze joins Sam's, Cas feels pinned. Dean's always had a way of taking all of him in. It is a way that seems to go beyond the physical, and focus more on Castiel himself. This gaze seems more intense, somehow, and more focused on the physical, if Dean's uncomfortable shifting is anything to go by.

Cas feels weirdly in tune with Dean. It's because he hasn't seen Dean look at him like that since he- since that other Dean proposed, Cas tells himself.

"Cas,” Dean says. "Take a seat."

Cas chooses the seat opposite Dean. Although he tries to persuade himself it's because the seat beside Dean is hidden under stacks of books, he knows it's not. It's because this way Dean will keep staring at him like that, like he's never seen him before and he's still in awe, like he's still a warrior that deserves this awe.

Neither brother speaks for a moment. The two of them are too busy having a conversation with their eyes.

So Cas takes matters into his own hands. "What is it that you wish for me to do?"

Still the silence extends another age. And then Sam breaks it.

"We can't find anything about curing the mark-"

"Yet." Dean interrupts.

Sam sends Dean his best bitch face before continuing. "We figure Metatron is our best shot," he says simply.

"You want me to interrogate him?"

"No, we're going to interrogate him," Dean corrects. "You just have to get him down from Heaven's Holy Detention Centre."

Cas considers telling them about Rowena. About his grace. About what he's willing to do got Dean when he thinks about it (Which is anything, as his mind helpfully reminds him).

But if Metatron does have a cure...

One of Cas' hands sneaks into his pocket, fingers curling round the bottle of grace there. If Metatron can tell them how to cure Dean, he can be an angel again. He won't have to work with Rowena. He might not have to give up his grace. 

He could be an angel again. He could- he could save Dean the only way he knows how to: pulling him out of the flames.

"Alright," he says. There's a curious feeling in his stomach as he agrees, almost as if he had swallowed a stone. "I shall bring Metatron to the bunker."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have questions about the canon and canon divergence I've got going, just let me know in the comments- I'll do my best to explain.


	4. I'll Hold You Close and Learn to Let You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters turn their attentions to Metatron and the Book of the Damned, while Cas heads out to confront djinn and- hopefully- find a way of curing Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do, by the way, suck at chapter summaries. Also, this ep is roughly at canon 10.18-

The angel Doloriel guards the gate today. Doloriel wears the vessel of a young mother, and Temuel beside her that of a young boy. They both greet him formally and, after he declares his intent to speak with Metatron, they open the gateway.

It does not surprise him when Hannah is waiting for him in the other side. Neither of them speak initially, each taking the other in. Castiel coughs.

"You're unwell." Hannah does not refer solely to his vessel's physical problems- a mere cold- but to the tears in the webbing of energy that is all that remains of Adina’s grace as it patched him up.

"It does not matter," he interrupts. He can feel the grace pulsing sluggishly and knows using even the smallest amount of it could send him spiraling. It is all that is keeping him upright.

"Then what are you here for, Castiel?" His rebuke has offended her, that much is obvious.

"Metatron."

Instantly protest arrives at her lips. "He is dangerous- you cannot risk him tempting you."

"I assure you he will not."

"Nonetheless, I will send a guard with you."

Castiel pauses, hesitates. There is likely to be severe objection to even letting the Winchesters near the Scribe.

"I wish to bring him to Earth."

"To the Winchesters." It's not a question, but he answers the affirmative anyway.

Hannah sighs, brown hair swings as she turns away. Together, they walk down bright hallways until they reach the prison. Before they enter, Hannah places a staying hand on his wrist.

"Be careful, Castiel," she says, as if he didn't already know. As if he didn't already fear his own strength to resist Metatron. "He knows how desperate you are- he'll do anything to be free again."

She's not even finished speaking before Cas nods. He's reaching to open the door when she calls him back. Even though her features are schooled, Cas can read worry there. Worry in the set of her mouth and in her eyes, blue and troubled. "Bring him- and yourself- back in one piece.”  
\--

Though they express their disagreement, Metatron's guards give him handcuffs and a sack to contain him. They escort him to the edge of the cell, and enter.

"Castiel," Metatron greets him solemnly. "You’re looking a bit rough- did you lose your Grace or something?"

Cas ignores him this time, accepting the key from the guards. Metatron keeps up a constant stream of unintelligible mumbling as Cas leads him out of the prison and to Heaven's portal.

It's only once they're in Cas' car that Metatron finally speaks up.

"No luck with that djinn then?" His tone is smug. Cas slips a hand back into his pocket to hold his grace and hopes that Metatron and Rowena never end up in a room together.

"Come on, Castiel," Metatron needles. "You can talk- I'll listen."

"No."

"Alright, grumpy." It seems like he might shut up then, but no such luck. "At least tell me what you're taking me to earth for- is it Dean, again?"

The doorway is not too far from the bunker. He can make it. The sly undertones to Metatron's words remind him how much the Scribe was underestimated, and for how often. He cannot underestimate him either.

"Have you told him yet?"

Despite himself, Cas finds himself answering. "Told whom what?"

"Dean," Metatron replies, as if Cas should know what he's talking about. "Have you told him you love him?"

Cas has told Dean. He's told him over breakfasts and lunches, over picnics and as they do the dishes. Heaven and his angelic grace be damned- he has told Dean.

But not this Dean.

"Ah- you haven't told him!"

Cas yanks the steering wheel with borderline frustration, probably leaving skid marks behind. "This is way better than the Notebook," Metatron mumbles from the back seat.  
\--

Sam answers the door. At the sight of Metatron and Cas, he breathes a sigh of relief. Quickly, he ushers them inside.

"We've prepared the dungeon." Sam steers Metatron by the shoulders as he talks, pausing occasionally to warn him of an upcoming step or doorway. It's such a kind thing to do to an enemy, Cas reflects. It’s a kindness that angels would not even consider.

But it’s a kindness the Winchesters have always extended to the angels more than the angels have to them.

Dean is waiting to open the doors for them. They secure Metatron to the chair that, only a few weeks prior, had held Dean. Dean whips the sack off, revealing Metatron grinning beneath the coarse material.

"Oh! It's the three Musketeers." His eyes take in the room: the dark walls, the older stains, the glint of metal on the walls as well as on a small cart at Sam's elbow. "Come to seek revenge on Rochefort, have we?

Dean snorts, but Sam just steps closer, towering over Metatron. "We just want to know how to cure the Mark-"

"Didn't Castiel tell you?" Metatron cuts through innocently. "He's already tried this- it doesn't work."

Both Winchesters turn to look at Cas. "He will not divulge information." There was no point telling them, not when he thought his grace might help.  
\--

After forty-five minutes of wheedling, threatening, and bribing, Castiel leaves the room.

In the kitchen, he makes a cup of coffee and drinks it. And then another. Leaning against the counter, he tries to think. How he can get Metatron to divulge all he knows?

Losing his grace is a last resort, he reasons. It's more than that, truly.

No one knows where angels go when they die. And, in the end, is Castiel even an angel any more?

Cas' gaze lands on a shelf of bottles, little more than glass vials with stoppers. And there's his idea.

Before he can act on it, there's a yell from the hallway that leads to the dungeon: "Dean!" Sam's voice echoes. His shout is followed by the sound of banging.

Pushing away from the counter, Cas grabs a vial and runs.  
\--

Sam smashes one fist against the concealed door of the basement, the other hand working to unpick the lock. "Dean! Open up!" He shouts periodically.

By the time Cas reaches him, vial shoved into his pocket, he's on his knees. "What happened?"

"Dean locked me out," Sam picks at the lock again. "I think the Mark is getting to him."

"Stand back." Cas growls. There is nothing left but for him to blast the door. It won't be good, he knows, but he has no choice. He probably won't have any grace left at all.

Hand outstretched, he summons every last fibre of Adina's grace and directs it at the door. It bursts out of him, spiraling blue energy that makes the doors explode open.

Sam rushes through. Distantly, Cas hears him struggle with Dean; Metatron cries out his anger.

Cas sinks to the ground, his breathing ragged. But he has to know if he can save Dean and still use the grave humming in his pocket. He forces himself to his feet. Spots dance across his field of vision, and he braces himself against the wall.

Sam and Dean stumble out as he stumbles in.

Barely, jaggedly, he makes it to Metatron. He is still chained, but his face is bloody and beaten now. A bruise blossoms under one eye and he spits his rage in red coloured spit.

"Won't do you any good," Metatron hisses. "You'll die before you can help him."

Cas places one hand on an arm of Metatron's chair to hold him up. He tilts forward, other hand wavering until it's at Metatron's throat.

Gently, he cuts.

He holds the vial to the slit skin and watches the grace spiral out and into the glass.

Metatron splutters, hands trying to fly to his neck. "What-" he tries to get out, but the skin is already healing as the last of his grace leaves.

Cas stoppers the vial and replaces the knife at Metatron's jugular. "You can die like a human now, Metatron," he warns. Nonetheless, he adjust the blade so it only rests on the skin of his throat. "Tell me how to get rid of the Mark."

Disturbingly, another grin splits Metatron's face. He chuckles, a manic sound that reverberates in the small room.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Castiel," he beckons with a bound hand. "I don't actually know a cure."

And with that, Castiel's hopes topple. His arm drops, blade falling away from his hand to clatter on the floor. "You can die at his side," Metatron continues conversationally, "if he doesn't kill you first."

Sam pulls him away, though Cas didn't see him enter. He lets Sam take him away and close the doors; lets him lead him back to the kitchen.

Sam's handed him his third cup of coffee of the day before he realises he's still clutching Metatron's grace.

He sets it on the table.

"It's Metatron's grace." he explains before either brother can ask.

Sam takes it from him. Cas doesn't ask what he will do with the vial.

The brothers converse in hushed whispers while he drains the dregs of his coffee. He goes to wash it up, but Dean stops him. "Talk to me for a moment, Cas?" he offers, and Cas follows him. 

Up close, the bags under Dean's eyes are more prominent. His nightmares continue, then. Guiltily, Cas realises he no longer has the grace to soothe them.

And Dean won't let him kiss the nightmares away, like his Dean used to do for him.

"You alright, Cas?" Dean asks, rubbing the back of his neck as he always does when he's nervous.

"I'm fine." Cas tries to assure him. He's not. His head feels like it's being bombarded with metal shots, and he can barely stand. But it's what he says, because it's what the Winchesters say, even as they speak bloody words.

Even as they die.

Hesitation is obvious in Dean's face. His mouth shapes words soundlessly and he becomes restless, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Cas." Cas notes that there are spots of Metatron's blood on Dean's knuckles. "You've not been alright since Sam got you out of that djinn dream."

Cas freezes. Sam wouldn't have told Dean about Cas' djinn dream, would he? Surely he wouldn't have explained how he found Cas in Dean's arms, ready to marry him?

"Dean-" Dean has to know that Cas won’t try and live in that dream world; he has to know Cas isn’t going to try and get back. Before Cas can say any of that, Dean interrupts.

"What happened to you in there? What changed?"

Before he met the Winchesters, when they were but the names of Michael and Lucifer’s vessels, Dean had encountered a djinn too. Given all that Dean has been through and all he has lost, Cas supposes their dreams may have been similar.

Other than their centerpieces. He could answer: "I fell in love (with you)". He could tell him: "I flew too close to my sun and fell, spiraling to the depths as I opened my eyes". The most accurate way to tell Dean what happened- and what changed him- would be to answer: "You."

Cas finally responds,"I had a change in perspective." Lies of this kind make a Winchester, he thinks wryly.

Of course, Dean is actually a Winchester, and he knows a lie when he sees one. Yet for some reason he seems to let it go. The conversation seems to be over.

"Was it a nightmare, or…?"

"It wasn't a nightmare." He can tell Dean this much.

Somehow, it doesn't make him feel any better. So he makes a promise: if he can cure Dean, he will tell him. One day he'll explain. Perhaps, if Dean could ever return his feelings, they could recreate that world together.

A memory of Dean crooning Elvis in Cas' ear as they washed and dried the dishes flits by. Yes, he'd like that again.

Not yet, though.

"I should leave."

"Cas?" Dean puts a hand on Cas' shoulder. The contact sparks the electricity and security it always has, thickening the air. This time it's one sided.

He needs to return Metatron to Heaven and talk to Rowena. He has a deal to accept.  
\--

Halfway back from the gate to Heaven, Cas has to pull his tan car over to the wayside. Once the engine is safely stalled, he lets himself cough. With each stuttered exhale, his body trembles.

When he finally straightens, it's to the sight of blood in his palm. He's also hungry; his body is keenly reminding him of how far he has fallen. There was a diner a few miles back, so he carefully reboots the engine and drives back.  
\--

There's a free booth beside the window, leather cracked and stained, the table covered in crumbs.

Looking out onto the busy highway, he doesn't notice someone sliding into the seat opposite him. At least, not until her crisp tones slice the silence. "Are you ordering?"

Hurriedly Cas places his order. Once the waiter has left, he appraises Rowena.

"Rowena," he says by way of greeting.

"Castiel," she leans her elbows on the table, studying him keenly. "Have you given any thought to my little bargain?"

"I accept."

"Excellent."

The waiter returns with Castiel's water, setting it down so quickly a little sloshes over the side.

"How does this spell work?" The words tumble out the moment the waiter leaves; Cas mirrors Rowena's pose, worn trenchcoat elbows resting on the wooden table.

Rowena shakes her head. "Your side of the bargain first, Castiel."

How similar she and Crowley are. He tries again. "This spell needs to be performed as soon as possible. If any of the ingredients are hard to obtain, I would," he pauses, searching for the correct term, "appreciate knowing them now."

Rowena sighs. She slips a hand inside her sleeve and pulls out a slip of paper. Holding it up, she meets his gaze again.

"These are the ingredients you'll need," she tells him, sliding the sheet across the table to him. "I'll collect the harder ones."

Cas nods his thanks and accepts the list.  
\--

Again, when Cas enters the bunker, the Winchesters are gone. Cas traipses into the kitchen, placing his keys on a table as he goes. There’s no doubt the ingredients for Rowena’s spell will be difficult to procure, and it will almost certainly be dangerous. But if he doesn’t- not even Metatron knows of another cure. And Dean. Dean killed Cain, and had lost his mind to the fury of the Mark before then.

He’s so lost in thought it takes him three tries to load the coffee capsule.

“Hey.”

Claire. He’d forgotten about her. Despite their initial problems, Sam and Dean had agreed to give her free reign of the bunker while they try to figure out what to do with her. As much as he wants to, Cas can’t give her father back, and she doesn’t seem to want him.

The coffee machine grumbles behind him. “They said to tell you they’re checking out a case in Wyoming.” Claire grabs her own mug from the cupboard and sets it beside Cas’ on the unit.

“Oh.” There is no warmth emanating from Claire. Nothing suggests even the slightest friendliness towards him. But if she's to live in the bunker, they need to get on.

Claire takes her filled coffee cup and makes to leave out the door. "Claire?" He calls after her.

Her head whips round. "What?"

Social interaction is still new to him. Cas catches sight of the piece of paper, scribbled ingredient face up. That's it. He gestures to it. "Can you help me with something?"

She hovers at the door, hands tight around her coffee cup. A hummingbird. That's what Claire reminds him of, hovering at the door as if the room is a flower that may be empty of nectar.

"What do you want?" 

"You are aware that Dean has the Mark of Cain, correct?"

‘Grudging participation’ describes her perfectly. "Yes."

"I am attempting to find a cure." He needs to be careful- hope can be dangerous, and the Winchesters cannot be allowed to place faith in him again. Not when he might fail. So he adds, hastily, "I’m doing it on my own."

Claire doesn’t say anything.

“We need- I need- to help Dean.”

She breathes a sigh. To Castiel’s relief, Claire steps back into the room. Setting her coffee cup down on the table, she slides into the seat opposite him and sets her elbows on the table. “Is this because you’re in love with him?”

Cas freezes, mouth agape. He mentally retraces his words, his movements, his very breaths in the last few days. For if Claire has noticed, surely someone else has too. Surely Dean has.

He tries to protest, but soon stops when Claire makes to get up again. Instead, he asks “How did you know?”

“You look at him like my dad used to look at my mom.” And, when Castiel considers it, it makes sense. Claire would have seen the love in her father’s eyes and recognised it again in his.

Only her father’s eyes don’t act as a- what is the human phrase? Window to the soul?- because there is no true soul in in Jimmy’s body anymore.

“He’s a monster.” Indeed, Claire has seen Dean in one of the worst times. Yet Castiel has seen him blackened in the fires of hell, in the greys of Purgatory, and in the depths of onyx eyes. And he knows, even then, that Dean could never truly be a monster.

“I believe there’s a little monster in all of us.”

_And when is a monster not a monster? When you love him._

“Tell that to my dad.” Her response is lightning fast, and she pushes back her chair. In an instant, she’s turned tail and has left the room. Cas can hear her footfalls, shoe-soles slapping the floor, as she makes her way down the hall.

He closes his eyes in resignation. Claire does not wish to forgive. He glances at the table- perhaps he should attempt to locate some of the ingredients in the Men of Letters’ archive.

But Claire has taken the list.  
\--

"Claire?" Cas slams his fist against the door. "Claire!"

There's no response. Cas kneels down so his mouth is level with the keyhole and tries again. "I need that list, Claire."

He tries the door. Locked. Without his grace to aid him, he will have to open it with sheer force.

It takes surprisingly little weight to move the door, and when it does swing open, it's to reveal that Claire isn't there. Her room is still surprisingly bare. The only sign the room is even inhabited is the duffle bag on the floor by the bed. Clearly Claire has not made her home here.

"What're you doing in my room?" Cas spins around. Claire stands in the doorway, a folder under one arm and Cas' list in the other.

"I was looking for you."

One eyebrow quirks up. "Clearly I'm not there."

"Well," he says gruffly, "I did not know that at the time."

She sighs and steps into the room. "Let me make one thing clear, okay?"

Cas nods, wondering what she's talking about.

"I am doing this because you're helping me. It's your fault I was there in the first place," her tone grew bitter, "but I'm going to help you."

“Thank you, Claire,” he begins, and goes to stand beside her. She bars the way.

“When I’ve done this,” she takes a deep breath, as if to steel herself, “I want to leave. Send me to another hunter, ship me off to some school till I’m legal- I don’t care.”

It seems impersonal, irresponsible even, to Cas. He promised Jimmy he would protect his family, and he has failed thrice over. First in the necessity of Claire’s possession, then in the loss of Claire to the same djinn that took him, and last in the loss of Amelia. Surely this does not qualify-

“Do we have a deal?” Claire sticks her hand out, folder clenched under her other arm.  
"Oh." is all Castiel seems to be able to say.

"This file is everything those Winchesters have categorized about this bunker." Claire shows him the file, beige in colour with the Men of Letters insignia stamped on it in red. "It seems to include all their ingredients."

"Thank you." He says earnestly, and reaches for it. But Claire holds the file away.

"I'm helping."

Eyes narrowed, Cas takes her hand. After a brief squeeze, Claire pulls away, uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot, arms folded awkwardly.

“Shall we proceed?”  
\--

Claire finds the herbs in the kitchen cupboard, sticking the small containers in her pockets. They cross off the herbs- thyme, saffron, St. John's wort- with a half-broken blue pen, ink staining their fingers.

The next items are harder: demon essence, centaur tongue, griffin feathers. It takes a full hour in the archives and the various storerooms to locate any of the ingredients.

The Men of Letters, arcane and private in their ways, have their own language of categorisation. The language is comparable in complexity to early Aramaic, although entirely different to the Enochian to which Castiel is accustomed.

He opens yet another door to reveal more stacks of boxes. The first set reveals jars and jars of eyes, the second yet more herbs, crumbling with age. Just as Cas prepares to leave the tiny room, Claire calls him.

As he leaves his room, brushing his hands free of dust, Claire emerges from hers. "Got the Griffin feathers," she says triumphantly, and sets the box with the rest of the things they've found. "What next?”

Cas consults his list. “It says,” he squints, the tight slanted handwriting hard to decipher, “voiceless it cries, wingless flutters, toothless bites, mouthless mutters.” 

“A riddle,” Claire says flatly. “You’re kidding me.”

Abruptly Cas’ stomach grumbles, a curious vibration rumbling in his belly. Surprised, he pokes it. He is hungry. “Would you like something to eat?” he asks Claire. She nods, and they leave the storeroom together, traipsing back towards the kitchen.

Claire pulls two beers out of the fridge and sits opposite him, sliding one across the wooden tabletop to Cas. “What do we do now?”

Pushing back his chair, Cas gets up. There’s some bread in the cupboard and a couple of apples on top of the microwave. He tosses one apple to Claire and grabs the sandwiches. “We try and solve the riddle.” Cas shrugs. He sets the scrap of paper down on the table in front of him.  
\--

“I’m back, bitches!”

Cas jolts upright, knocking over his beer bottle, which, thankfully, is empty. He catches it as it rolls off the table, breathing a relieved sigh. Instead of the floor, however, he finds himself looking at a pair of laced-up combat boots.

Righting himself, Cas sees he’s face to face with a red-haired, excited-eyed Charlie Bradbury. The Winchesters had told him about the first ‘Woman of Letters’, and he stands to greet her.

“You’re him,” Charlie grins, barely seeming to notice Claire. “You’re Castiel.”

Cas can’t help but match her grin and holds out a hand., “You must be Charlie.”

She ignores his hand and, on her tip-toes, pulls him into a hug. “Dude, I have heard so much about you,” Charlie draws back, eyes flicking Cas up and down.

"Hi," Claire pipes up from behind them. She sounds irritated. "Who are you."

"Charlie Bradbury- Woman of Letters." Her red hair bounces and she slips into a chair beside Cas. "Old friend of Sam and Dean."

Charlie looks expectantly at Claire, who responds, almostly arrogantly: "Claire Novak." 

"Where are Sam and Dean?" Cas asks before- he's not entirely sure what he expects to happen, but Claire is still appraising Charlie with almost hostile suspicion, much like the sort she directs at him, and it would not do to see it acted on.

"Getting pizza." Charlie bounces in her seat, fidgeting with her hoodie. She's constantly moving. "What're you doing?"

"Trying to solve some dumb-ass riddle," Claire complains, pointing to the paper.

Leaning over with one forearm braced on the table to stop herself from falling, Charlie grabs the scrap. The paper's balled up from where Claire had crumpled it in sheer frustration not ten minutes before. The ink is blotted and running from the last drops of the beer Cas had knocked over.

Charlie flattens it as best as she could with the heel of her hand. Squinting she reads the riddle out again: "Voiceless it cries, wingless flutters, toothless bites, mouthless mutters."

Anxiously Cas glances over his shoulder. The Winchesters will be back any moment, and he'd rather they didn't find them trying to word out a riddle for one of Rowena's ingredients.

Charlie's laugh draws him back round. "How did you not get this?" She asks incredulously, shaking her head.

Cas and Claire look at her, both frowning. He had not been aware Charlie was proficient at riddle solving, but despite her confidence, the answer still eludes him.

"Guys," she groans when neither of them respond, "it's from the Hobbit."

"What do hobbits have to do with this?"

Charlie whips her gaze between Cas and Claire. "Neither of you have read the Hobbit?" She shakes her head. "I have got to correct that."

"What's the Hobbit got to do with the riddle?" Claire runs her fingertip over the mouth of her beer bottle, long since emptied, looking thoroughly bored.

"The riddle is from the Hobbit," Charlie sets down the paper.

"So what is the answer?"

"Wind," she says. "The answer is wind."

“Wind?” Cas questions, his eyes narrowing.

Before Charlie can answer, the bunker door opens again. “Hey- see you two have met,” Dean peers over the banister, two pizza boxes in his hands. “Nice to have you all here.”

Sam closes the door behind Dean, a third box in his arms. As surreptitiously as he can, Cas reaches across and taps Charlie on the shoulder. She turns, one eyebrow raised. As Sam and Dean come down the stairs, he silently tugs at the paper in Charlie’s hands. She gives it over without a fuss, only mumbling “explain later” to him when he takes it.

Dean sets down the pizza boxes, opening them in a row. The smell of hot cheese and meat wafts down the table while Sam grabs plates. “That’s my cue,” Claire comments, nabbing a slice of pepperoni from the box and standing up. “I’ll leave you guys to talk ‘hunter’.”

“What?” Charlie looks at each Winchester in turn. “She can stay, can’t she?”

The hardened expression on Claire’s face slips a moment, and Cas watches intently- this is the first time Claire has let emotions slip past her anger. In a way, he supposes, she is quite like Dean.

Claire takes her seat again. Charlie passes Cas a piece of pizza while Sam and Dean help themselves.

“What did you do today?” Dean asks between bites of pizza.

“Explored the archives,” Claire answers quickly, and Cas nods gratefully in her direction. Charlie solved the riddle, but still the ingredient itself remains relatively unclear- Wind? What kind? He has felt many winds in his millennia, and Rowena could ask for anything from a first fresh breeze to the gale force that circled the bunker than morning.

Cas manages two slices of pizza before he heads into the kitchen to wash up his plate. The hum of chatter from the table is pleasant, a slightly buzzed atmosphere generated by the fact that they are, at least for now, all together.

A second plate slips into the sink beside his with a quiet splash, sending suds slopping up the sides. “Hey Cas,” Charlie nods a greeting, nudging him aside so they can both stand at the sink. She lowers her voice and reaches for the sponge. “So why did you need to know the answer to that riddle?”

Perhaps it would be easiest to tell Charlie the entire story- or maybe only begin with the list slid to him across a tabletop in a grimy roadside diner. Charlie interrupts his thoughts: “Spill.”

“I am researching a cure for the Mark of Cain,” He chooses to say instead, covering his words with a carefully timed splash in the water as he drops his plate against Charlie’s.

“Ohh,” She nods, grin spreading across her face, cheeks dimpling. “You’re going to cure Dean!”

“I’m going to try.” Dripping wet, Cas slides the plate into the rack, and then leans back against the counter. “Do not tell him.”

“Sure,” Charlie slides her plate onto the rack beside his and turns so they’re face to face. “Why do you need wind?”

“I am unsure.” From his pocket, Cas retrieves the list of ingredients. His fingers are still wet from the soapy washing-up water, but he hands it over anyway. “It’s an ingredient to the cure.”

The paper curls and disintegrates a little at the edges where Charlie holds it. Little blue ticks mark the things he and Claire have already found, and Charlie moves her index finger down the list until she reaches the riddle, the first unchecked thing. “East,” she says. “She wrote ‘East’.”

“East wind?”

“Looks like it.” Charlie yawns, and Cas looks at her closely. The skin under her eyes is dark and the veins stand out prominently, and there’s a smear of blood at her hairline. He frowns.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

A third splash. Claire joins them at the counter. “Are we going back to the archives?” She addresses the question at Charlie, craning her neck to see the word her finger hovers over: East.

“Busy kitchen,” Sam carries two plates and two beer bottles over, slipping between Cas and Claire. “What’s going on?”

What had Cas told himself in that white-walled bedroom, sitting beside that Dean? Oh yes: when we want something we lie. “I left-” Cas casts his eyes around the kitchen for inspiration, “a mug in the archives,” he tells Sam, “and Charlie and Claire have offered to help me find it.”

The three of them head down the hallway, leaving Sam and Dean to their after dinner beers. “I saw some wind,” Claire says excitedly after they’ve passed the first of the archive rooms. “It was in the same room as the griffin feathers.”

That room is only just round the corner, and the door still stands ajar. “Okay,” Charlie claps her hands together as she enters, “shall we find us some wind?”


	5. We Pull Apart the Darkness While We Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowena works with Castiel in ways that weren't as he'd thought they'd be, and everyone else hopes they'll get there in time to prevent everything they've worked for going down the drain.

Claire hands Cas a pen she scrounged from her jeans. The lid is missing, but there’s somehow enough ink to mark a little check beside the riddle and its marker word. “So,” Claire leans against the door, hands jammed in her pockets, “what’s next?”

Eyebrows drawn together, Cas looks further down the list. There’s nothing but an elegantly scripted signature “Rowena” and a note that reads ‘Remember your side of the bargain’.

Cas swallows. “I need to summon Crowley.”

“Crowley?” Claire asks, stumbling round the name at the same time as Charlie bites her lip and says “Really? Crowley?”

There’s a packet of chalk on the nearest shelf, and Cas grabs two sticks from it, along with three candles from the bucket behind them. “Unfortunately, yes.” He hasn’t spoken to Crowley since they met outside the gas ‘n’ sip. It seems unfair to summon Crowley to kill him, especially since he still owes him a debt for the Grace Crowley stole for him. Without Crowley, truthfully, he would not have made it to the bunker in time to prevent Dean from killing his brother.

“Who’s Crowley?”

“He’s the King of Hell.” From her bag, Charlie produces a battered book with the title “Supernatural” emblazoned on it with “Abandon All Hope” scripted beneath it. “He’s also a dick.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you need to summon Crowley?”

It’s at this point that Cas decides he’s going to talk to Crowley first. He can still summon his angel blade if everything goes wrong, as it is prone to do when the Winchesters are involved. “We need to talk,” he rumbles out in response to Claire’s curious stare.  
\--

One circular sigil and three candles later, Castiel is summoning Crowley. Suit tailored as ever, material crisp, he turns up in Castiel’s bedroom. “Really?” The King of Hell grimaces. The glass of whisky in his hand is no surprise, and he sets it down on the bedside cabinet, the edge of which only just intrudes into the devil’s trap. “Feathers,” he nods to Castiel, eyebrow jutting up when he spots Charlie and Claire, both standing behind him.

“Crowley,” Cas does his best to keep the attention on himself, “we need to talk.”

“Is that so?” If possible, Crowley manages to look even more skeptical. “Why don’t you introduce you to your little friends?”

“I’m Claire,” Claire bites out her introduction before Castiel can, and Crowley pivots to look at her again.

“I see the family resemblance,” he comments, and Claire’s expression visibly hardens. “And you are...?”

“Charlie Bradbury.” Charlie’s eyes are narrowed, suspicion radiating off her.

“I’ve been speaking with your mother.” The best way to deal with Crowley’s inattention seems to be to continue speaking, and indeed, Cas’ words get Crowley to walk over.

“Have you, now.” There’s no question here, only the narrowing of Crowley’s eyes to the point that frown lines etch themselves into his forehead.

“In return for a cure for Dean,” Cas says, “she would like me to kill you.”

Crowley chuckles. He grabs his whisky again. “You’d think one of you witless wonders on my tail would be enough for her,” he shakes his head and takes a sip, “but no.”

Cas cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Crowley all but hisses, “that not only has my mother set you after me, but she’s also got Moose.”

“Wait-” Claire pushes off from the wall she’d been leaning against- “She double-crossed both of you?”

Sam had indeed been very subdued at dinner. His eyes had been sad, his words unusually sombre but masked, as usual, by cheerfulness. No wonder. “Apparently so,” Cas turns his words to Claire.

“Why don’t you do the same, then?” Charlie pipes up from the bed.

“Surely Rowena will not cure Dean if I do not uphold my side of the bargain,” Cas frowns, struggling to follow Charlie’s train of thought. The idea is appealing, seeing as he owes Crowley a debt.

“She doesn’t have to know.” Claire interrupts.

“And what do you expect me to do?” Crowley’s voice ratchets up half an octave. “Hide in your HQ? I have a hell to run! And not just any hell,” he points out, “The Hell!”

Across the devil’s trap, Cas meets Charlie’s eyes. She shrugs and nods, and Cas nods back. “Crowley-”

“Of course,” Crowley’s business tone is back, smirk placed carefully and whisky refilled somehow, “my Mother’s spells need… certain ingredients.”

Cas cocks his head, confused. They have found all the ingredients on the list, have they not?

“You’ll need some of my blood,” Crowley explains, and snaps his fingers. A vial appears on the cabinet. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.” Another debt to Crowley. Castiel swipes the vial, sticking it in his pocket. To Claire and Charlie: “Don’t tell Dean- or Sam- where I’m going.”

He’s halfway out the door when Crowley speaks up again. “Of course, my Mother won’t let you get out of this in one piece, Castiel.”

Cas ignores him.  
\--

Dean’s sitting in the dark kitchen by himself when Cas walks through to leave. There’s a glass of hunter’s helper at his elbow, reflecting the Mark in its amber depths. On Dean’s other side is an endless pile of discarded books.

If that didn’t tell Cas they hadn’t found anything, the slumped set of Dean’s shoulders would. As does the fact that Cas can’t see hope in his eyes anymore.

Dean clenches and unclenches his fist, making the Mark stand out with each flex. Its dark red is like blood, like the last embers of a sunset, like the edges of crumbling ash.

Cas hasn’t told Dean or Sam about Rowena’s cure. He figures it’s his burden to bear, his alone to shoulder when the consequences will fall to him.

For a moment, Cas watches Dean from the doorway. Perhaps it is the knowledge that it was this pair of pained eyes- these bowlegs, this marked man- that Cas first fell in love with, but he finds he can’t leave. Not without telling him. Not without saying "I love you".

He has to say it for first time but also for the millionth time. For the last time this time as he’s had last times before. Maybe they were doomed from the first time the words slipped from Cas’ lips. The first time they fell like he had fallen.

This time- like the first time- he falls alone.

It’s not right to leave without saying it one last time. Not when he doesn’t know if it will work. Not when he doesn’t know if he can save Dean; when he could come back to find him lost to the mark.

So he steels himself and walks over. “Dean,” is all he says, but it gets his attention.

Dean stands. They’re face to face, separated by a few inches. Cas can feel Dean’s breaths on his face, and inhales.

“Cas?” Dean sounds breathless and unsure and just a little bit scared.

Cas pulls his hands out of his pockets. He reaches forward, each index finger slipping through one of Dean’s belt loops. Gently, carefully, he tugs Dean forward. Cas pulls him by the belt loops until those inches are gone.

He pulls until he can press his lips against Dean’s.

For the first time, but also for the millionth time.

Dean freezes, a shocked gasp escaping his mouth as it opens in surprise. But then he kisses back and Castiel is drowning. They are the same soft lips, but more calloused hands grip his hips. There is more hunger. It is more vivid.

More everything.

Their noses bump and Dean huffs out a laugh. Cas unhooks his fingers, hands coming up to curl in the soft hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. He tugs again, letting them fit together naturally.

Inhale, exhale. Nose in the crook of Dean’s neck. Soft kisses on his head, fingers in his hair. No space between them. The smell of whisky and coffee, faintly car leather and gunpowder.

He breathes his "I love you" into the shell of Dean's ear, and then again into his mouth.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is hoarse. They part again, no space returning to the few inches of before. The combination of Dean’s flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips makes Cas want to lean forward again.

It was even better than before, when he could be sure that he would be able to kiss him again.

And it’s this time he’s got to go.

So he spins, turns away and strides out. He leaves Dean open-mouthed behind him, ignoring the urge to return and kiss away the worry.

Cas aches to say goodbye.

But he doesn’t.  
\--

Rowena asked him to name the place for the spell to be cast, and Castiel chose a barn in Pontiac, Illinois. His angelic self and Dean may begin and end in the same place- a full circle.

Doubtless Claire will tell Dean where he is going, but it will be too late by then. Ahead, through the windshield, Cas watches the clouds gather.

One of his trench coat pockets holds his grace; the other contains Dean’s blood. Crowley’s blood stains both pockets. It seems strangely fitting- blood from Heaven, Earth, and Hell all brought together.

Miles flash by faster than they should, and soon Cas is pulling up outside the barn. He parks his car. As the engine cuts out, the doors open. Rowena stands at the threshold. She has to shout to be heard over the wind. “Castiel!”

No sooner has he opened his car door than it blows shut again. He spares a thought to wonder if that’s meant to be a sign, but he shuts down that hope- he isn’t sure he believes in his father anymore. 

“Is everything ready?” Trying to shout over the wind makes his voice hoarse, dropping an octave to rumble like the thunder churning above.

Rowena nods. She has a small table set up- perhaps it was there on his last visit, like many of the symbols fading on the wall. An iron bowl stands centrepiece, the other ingredients already inside. The barn’s dim lighting makes the blood look black.

“Is Crowley dead?” she asks, and Cas nods absentmindedly. She seems to believe him, for she doesn’t object.

Hurriedly, for if Dean does figure out what Cas is doing, if he is following him, their time is short, Cas empties his pockets. Rowena uncorks and empties the vial of Dean’s blood before his grace is even on the table.

“Now yours,” Rowena insists.

Cas frowns. “Surely it is easier to-”

“No.”

Reluctantly, Cas takes off his trenchcoat, setting it on the table. He rolls one sleeve up to his elbow, underside of his arm bared. Rowena has an IV set up, bag ready to collect his blood. Without warning, she sticks the needle in at his vein. The sensation is unpleasant, like pinching flesh for too long, but bearable.

Rowena moves about at the table, chopping and mixing the various remaining ingredients. Castiel’s grace still lies untouched, and he focuses on the swirling blue to take his mind off the feeling of having blood drawn.

The bag is barely a quarter full when Cas starts to feel the first effects- he’s almost light-headed, and he swears he can hear his heart pounding. But he ignores it.

When it’s half full, he feels worse. He estimates the bag must already hold a quarter of his blood. His heart seems to pound harder, eager to fill the bag. He feels hot, but cool in a strange mixture, and he can’t seem to keep his breathing steady. It’s time to stop- if he fills the whole bag, he could go into shock.

Carefully, not moving too quickly lest the yellow and black spots dot his vision again, Cas lifts his wrist. “Rowena?”

It takes Cas a moment to process the metallic click for what it is: handcuffs. He tugs fruitlessly at his restraints. “Rowena? What are you doing?” He bends his head, thinking he can perhaps tear the needle loose with his teeth, but Rowena stops him.

“This is for Dean, remember?” she tells him, earnestly peering into his eyes. “Can you do this for Dean?”

“Why do you need all my blood?” He spits. Then there’s a hand in his hair, smoothing strands, and he disconnects a little.

“It’s for Dean,” Rowena repeats. Dean. It must be important, then.

“S’for Dean,” Cas repeats, momentarily, appeased. Isn’t everything for Dean? He is Dean’s, in the end, whether Dean wants him or not. “For Dean.”

The world blurs a little after that.  
\--

Dean drives the Impala straight through the barn wall. Rowena, however, is too deep in the spell to even flinch. The bowl's contents burn with green and blue flames, reminiscent of will o' the wisps, and her chanting is a constant murmur.

Both brothers are out of the car in an instant, each with a blade in one hand and a gun in the other. Sam runs for Rowena. Dean runs for Cas.

Cas can't seem to move. His limbs feel syrupy, almost boneless, and his breaths are stuttered and shallow. He knows Dean, though. "Dean," he slurs. "Dean."

The world doesn't quite make sense. Colours meld and merge for him, and he's back in the B&B again. Dean's probably chosen a film, he reasons, confused by the look of worry on his fiancé's face. He must have fallen asleep on the couch again.

Something gleams. Wedding band, he thinks blearily, trying to turn his head to look at his own. But the gleam is in the wrong place- closer to Dean's chest than his finger. And Cas can't see his ring.

The light gleams again and his eyes refocus. Dean clutches him, holding him upright. There's a sharp sting when he rips out the needle- oh, the needle. He'd forgotten about that.

"Dean!" Sam yells from over by Rowena, and throws something. A small vial sails through the barn. Dean catches it.

It flows blue and white and Castiel recognizes his grace. Dean goes to unstopper it, to return it, but Cas pushes Dean's hand away.

"No," he manages to gasp out.

"Cas, it's your grace," Dean's tone is soothing, and he yanks out the stopper in one smooth movement.

"No," Cas says weakly, "it's part of the cure."

"Cure?"

"For th' Mark." Cas turns his head a little. Sam is struggling against Rowena, the area around her spell seeming to act as some sort of barrier to his attacks.

"We'll find something else, Cas," Dean insists, but Cas lashes out, making a grab for the vial himself.

Yet he is sluggish and tired, and instead he knocks the vial out of Dean's grip. It falls and bounces on the hard floor, rolling along the rough ground until it comes to a stop right by Rowena.

Caught in the swirling light, Rowena’s hair flies around her face, shrouding her figure. Her words though, they are clear. Syllables of Latin and Enochian and of something much older than either. Sam lunges for the vial himself, pausing his attempts to get at Rowena herself.

Before he can so much as pick it up, Rowena has sent him flying back into the barn wall. He slides down, winded. Dean takes his turn, sliding across the floor himself and swiping the small bottle on his way.

Rowena lifts her hand, about to throw Dean back too, surely. But Dean gets there first, sending the glass flying towards Cas. It lands in his lap, and his grace, sensing his presence, starts to swirl out of the bottle, past the dislodged lid. “No,” Cas gasps, and fumbles for the stopper, closing it up again.

He’s still light-headed, breaths coming out too fast, legs like jelly. Still he forces himself to his feet and stumbles over to Rowena, feet dragging with each step. It feels like miles but he makes it. Castiel stands opposite her, spell bowl between them. She holds out her hand for the grace, still chanting. Breathing hard, Cas goes to hand it to her, reaching out his arm to drop it into her palms.

But then she stops chanting, the translucent barrier between her and Cas dropping. The clay bowl cracks, charred ingredients scattering like ash on the wind.

And then Dean screams.

Cas turns, grace still clasped in his curled fingers. The Mark, prominent on Dean’s arm, glows fiery red, and Dean has his head thrown back, mouth frozen in a silent yell as the sound dies. Burning red, the raised skin on his forearm starts to turn black; the form cracking and smoking. Dean’s knuckles are white from clenching his fists, tendons standing out clearly beside the dying form of the mark.

“What did you do?” Cas yells at Rowena, leaning heavily on the table, half sure he’ll black out but knowing he _can’t_. Not while Dean is in pain.

“I did exactly what you wanted me to do,” Rowena smiles, gesturing to Dean almost carelessly. “I cured Dean Winchester of the Mark of Cain.”

On the floor, Dean is screaming again. The charred form of the Mark looks cancerous, diseased- truly like the symbol of the deed it originally represented: the first murder. And then it explodes, or at least that is how it seems in the shadows of the barn. Bits of burnt and blackened skin scatter, Dean’s arm glows a bright red again, and ash hovers in the air, making Cas cough weakly.

Yet, when Cas looks back, Dean’s arm bears only the barest outline of the mark, skin stained black around it from the burning ash. “Thank you, Rowena,” he says earnestly.

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Now I require payment.”

Cas blinks, mind flashing back to the cafe where he promised to kill Crowley. “I-”

“You have failed to kill my son,” she interrupts smoothly, “so I require payment for-” she sweeps a hand dismissively round the barn, “all this.”

“What do you require?” Cas rumbles. Dimly, he knows the only thing keeping him upright is the table he’s using as a support. He wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep-

He falls to the ground, breathing heavily.

“Grace,” Rowena says crisply. She bends down, crouching elegantly beside him, red hair falling into her face. Cas uncurls his fingers, staring glassily at his grace, twisting around in the confines of its container.

“Mine.” It’s not really a question, and he takes a shaky breath. If he does this- if he gives Rowena his grace- he will be human. No turning back. He will be fully fallen, ageing at the Winchesters’ sides. At Dean’s, like he’d dreamed.

“No,” Dean’s voice is choked with blood, hoarse from screaming. “Cas, don’t.”

Rowena reaches out. She leans over the table, fingertips trailing through the shattered remains of the spell, and goes to pick up Cas’ grace from his unresisting grip.

“No.” This time it’s Sam’s voice, and he’s standing at Cas’ side. He towers over Rowena too, fixing her with a glare. “Take this.” In his hands, Sam has another vial, clear glass displaying the furling, almost white grace inside.

“And whose is that, may I ask?”

“Metatron’s.” Sam shoves the vial at her. The table is the new barrier; a treaty between them. Rowena eyes Castiel’s grace, gaze flickering to Cas’ pale face and unsteady gaze. She picks Castiel’s grace up, holding it possessively. She frowns, but only barely, and the room seems to hold its breath, waiting for her verdict.

“Fine,” she says, and accepts the vial. She tucks it into her pockets and strides out. “You’re welcome,” she calls over her shoulder, and the barn door closes behind her.

Dean stands and comes over, muffled groans slipping through his teeth as he does. He pulls Cas’ arm over his shoulders, bringing him to his feet. Dried blood lines the edges of his lips and there is a scar on his arm: a raised imprint of the mark.

“It’s gone,” he says, disbelief clear in his tone. “It’s _gone_.”

A rumble passes through the barn. “Earthquake?” Sam says hopefully. Cas shakes his head, which is a mistake because it makes him fall over, head spinning a little. Immediately Sam and Dean are at his side, pulling him to his feet again and keeping him up, if only just.

“My father’s wrath,” he mumbles, clutching his grace a little tighter. “The Darkness.”

“The Darkness?” Dean grunts as he shoves open the barn door. The three of them stagger over to the Impala, still partially crashed into the barn.

“Hoxmarch,” Castiel croaks, and the Enochian feels foreign on his tongue. “Fear. It is where Lucifer got his inspiration for the demons. They move like demons, possessing people for maximum effect, but they don’t need vessels. Their form is impossible to see because they are conceived as their victim’s deepest fear.”

“How do we fight them?” Dean asks.

His words are weighted: “I don’t know.” Another word in his mind- Amara. What does that mean?

While Dean climbs into the Impala, preparing to reverse her out of the splintered piles of wood, Sam keeps Cas upright. “You need your grace,” he says. Sam sounds worried, slipping two fingers to Cas’ jaw line to feel his pulse. “Rowena took a lot of your blood.”

Cas nods. His grace is still clutched in his hand. Carefully, Sam helps him over to the Impala, letting him lean against the side as he opens a door. With shaking hands, Cas unstoppers the bottle. He holds it mouth to his and breathes in.

It’s like a shock to his system. His grace floods into every corner of his vessel, mending and re-energising as it goes. Sam shields his eyes as it radiates, curling and coming to a rest in his chest. It hurts. The pain makes him scream- not Jimmy, not his fallen self, but his true form. The pitch of it makes debris fall from the barn and the windows in it shatter, as do those in the Impala.

Distantly, he sees Sam and Dean clap hands over their ears, cursing and curling up. His wings burst out of his shoulders, and he knows Sam and Dean must see their silhouettes against the remainder of the barn’s walls.

Cas straightens, and the power of his grace still courses through him.

“Tone it down, Cas,” Dean says gruffly from the Impala. He is scratched and cut from the broken glass of the Impala’s windows, and so is Sam. Flexing his hands, Cas walks over and presses two fingers to each brother’s forehead, healing them. It feels good to once again be able to use his grace and know it’s not leaking out of him.

His wings are another matter entirely. His wings are tattered and losing feathers- but he was always falling anyway, wasn’t he? And now, now he can fly again. His feathers were once the tawny grey-blue of a stormy night, but now they stand more blue-black, as if they’ve been dipped in oil. These wings are heavy in their lightness, and with them he is falling.  
\--

The ride back to the bunker is filled with the steady beat and comforting volume of Dean’s music. Cas recognizes Zeppelin and AC/DC and closes his eyes. Now that he’s an angel again, he doesn’t close his eyes to disappear into that dream world, but instead tunes into ‘angel radio’. He’s the size of the Chrysler building and yet he feels small enough that Dean’s music is grounding.

They pull into the garage, parking the Impala slightly away from her usual spot so Dean can get to repairing her bumper. Sam gets out first, unfolding long limbs and heading back into the bunker, tiredly muttering about getting coffee.

Cas leans against the Impala’s side and waits for Dean to get out.

“Are we going to discuss this?” Dean asks when he does, eventually, open the door and come to stand by Cas.

“What?” His gaze is fixed on the ground, but seeing every molecule just makes him curiously dizzy, so he faces Dean.

“You kissed me.” Dean isn’t meeting his eyes either, and the words are quiet, unsure, and hold an uncertain curiosity.

“Yes.” In the djinn’s world, he never had to find out how Dean felt about him. Dean’s love was freely given- it was Cas who had to decide to it. And he had.

“I’m not-” At his sides, Dean’s fists clench and unclench. He breathes out. “I’m not-” He tried again, visibly struggling.

“Not what?”

Dean waves a hand in front of him. “You know,” he swallows, “gay- or bi, or whatever.”

Cas frowns. “I’m not human, Dean. I have no gender.”

“Your vessel does.” Dean reminds him, eyes flicking to meet his and then away again. “But I’m not-”

Here Cas understands. The Righteous Man never did think he deserved to be saved, to be loved. And Cas sees that Dean won’t understand it unless Cas says it first. 

“I love you.” In the garage the words seem to reverberate. The last time he said those words it was easier, he decides, for now Dean is silent beside him. “Dean?”

“You do?”

Cas nods.

“Cas…” Dean struggles for words, mouth open but soundless in further words. “Cas-”

With a deep breath himself, Cas turns so he and Dean stand face to face, barely a foot apart. “Do you wish to try?” he asks Dean. Cas leans forward until their foreheads touch, eyes lingering on Dean’s lips. He swallows, pulls back and pushes forward, and kisses Dean. It’s the barest brush of lips, and then he moves away, attempting to assess Dean’s reaction.

Dean is breathing hard. “Yes,” he whispers, voice definitely hoarse now, and moves forward himself.

This time the sparks flying between them are definitely mutual and agreed. The kisses are hasty, hands roving over shoulders and through hair, anchoring themselves at hips and necks and keeping them together. Dean’s lips are soft and he shivers when Cas’ hands ghost down his sides.

[](http://s354.photobucket.com/user/suchcandor/media/25_ending4%20copy%20copy_zpsdhvtgz4y.jpg.html)

When they finally draw apart, breathing hard against the Impala’s side, it takes them a moment to speak. “Shall we go back in?” Dean pants. He pushes himself up so he stands, and extends a shy hand to Cas.

Cas takes it; threads his fingers through Dean’s and holds tight. The skin just below his knuckle may still bear an imprint of a ring that he thought was his future, but this- this is new.

Cas smiles and squeezes Dean’s hand. He’s found his way back, and, at last, he and Dean can start from the beginning. Properly this time.

He’s home.

[](http://s354.photobucket.com/user/suchcandor/media/HANDS2_3%20copy_zpskxuiu9qb.jpg.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I hope you've enjoyed this fic. Honestly, I do hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. I welcome any comments you have- 
> 
> Again thanks to my lovely betas Abi and Anahita, without whom I'd not get anything done- never mind this fic! And, of course, thanks again to Jess, for being immense fun to work with and also incredibly talented- I'm so glad she picked me to create art for.
> 
> If you're interested, you can find me on tumblr here


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